


To Grow Trees from Stone and Light

by Nightrayspath, Wisperwind



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Battle of Azanulbizar, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Like snail pace, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, SO MUCH RESEARCH OH GOD, Slow Burn, We hate writing battles why are there so many battles in this?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5778373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightrayspath/pseuds/Nightrayspath, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisperwind/pseuds/Wisperwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in death Thorin Oakenshield refuses to let go of his regrets. When someone offers him a second chance, his choice is clear. So beginns another journey. Unexpected allies, bloody battles, dragon fire and a hidden quest shrouded in mystery await the King under the mountain as he once against sets out to reclaim his homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haunting I

**Author's Note:**

> A.N.: This FanFiciton is based on both book and on movie events. Especially the events happening before the quest of Erebor are more or less based solely on Tolkien's writings.
> 
> This will be crossposted to fanfiction.net by Nightrayspath.

The eyes of Thorin II Oakenshield followed the boat as it inched towards the endless seeming horizon. It was being carried away from the harbour on gentle waves. Slowly and steadily it moved out of reach. Thorin had raised his hand to grasp one of the departing when they had boarded the vessel, but his fingers had phased right though the elder Hobbit's cloak. It should not have come as a surprise. The chasm that separated him from Bilbo Baggins had always been unbridgeable, even before his untimely death over eighty years ago. The fact that he was now unable to touch the Hobbit literally as well as figuratively had changed surprisingly little and he had come to accept this as his penance.

The other Hobbits who had come to say their goodbyes where still standing in the harbour. Samwise, Meriadoc and Peregrin. They all had proven themselves to be brave beyond believe. They had lost much on their journeys and had gained even more. They had endured much and yet there they stood crying as if, with their friends, all happiness of this world was taken from them where no hardship had managed to do so before. Thorin would have been lying, he had said that he could not sympathise.

  
And so, though they could not see him, he took his place besides the mourning Trio. Together and in silence they watched the boat disappear. He stood with them until its white form had become indistinguishable from the glittering waves and the rising disk of the morning sun had swallowed its silhouette.

  
Eventually, the Hobbits left but Thorin found himself unmoving. There went his reason for existing still. His place and anchor in this world where he was adrift. He had followed the Baggins family for near a century. He had stood besides Bilbo through his return home, had seen him both rise and fall in the regard of his fellow Hobbits who respected him but thought him mad at the same time. He had witnessed Frodo's birth and the deaths of his parents. He had seen him being passed around his relatives until finally Bilbo had taken the boy in. He had seen them grow closer, become a family.

  
He had seen Bilbo wither and brush along the edges of madness under the influence of Sauron's Ring. He had seen Frodo almost doom the entire world for the same reason.  
A heavy hand, roughened by years spend working at a forge, landed on his shoulder. "They are gone. Are you ready to let go now, my child?"

  
The voice was deep and rumbling. It called to mind the image of a rockslide upon the mountain side. It was a soothing sound.

Even though he had heard it only once before, he knew immediately who this voice belonged to. There were only so many out there who would hold conversations with the dead after all. Even fewer were the numbers of those who could. He proved himself to be right when he finally tore his gaze away from the ocean and turned around.  
Besides him stood Mahal, his Maker and the Maker of all dwarves, in all his grandeur. He was smiling at Thorin through his long, thick, silver beard. The beads that were interwoven in it all differed in size and material and glowed in the morning sunlight. But even though the Valar's golden eyes were warm, his presence did nothing for the ice that had settled in Thorin's chest.

"I did this to them." His voice creaked from deep-seated regret and self-loathing. It was a thought he had held for far too long and to put it to words now was liberating, but it also made in vulnerable. He took a deep, calming breath and released it with a shudder. “I did this to them”, he repeated, this time with more strength to his voice. “To Bilbo more so then to Frodo, I'll admit. But in the end it was the Ring that broke them and there is no one more to blame for its finding than me.” When no answer came forth, he continued. “It was me who took Bilbo from his home and across half of Arda to the Misty Mountains. Even worse, I did not protect him there. He fell and I did nothing to stop it and when he returned by pure, unadulterated luck, the shadow was already upon him. I never even saw it, to absorbed I was with my own problems to see what burdened my companion. No, I shall never be ready for I shall never deserve to step into my ancestors halls. Not when it were my actions that left these two brave and pure souls so tarnished.”

"My child, you are not the first dwarf to refuse to enter my halls. It was to be expected, I suppose, with how stubborn I made you. Yet, I had never thought I would see the day where one of mine would refuse his rest for the sake of the souls of my wife's children.” There was a hint of pride in his maker's quiet rumble. Pride for what, Thorin, in his grief, could not hope to understand.

“Let me put your mind at ease in this one point, at least. You are right in so far that the touch of Sauron lays dark shadows upon the souls of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. Remind yourself, however, that they have been accepted into Valinor and will be cured of all ailments there. It will take time but there is yet more goodness within them then evil. They will heal.”

"Do not judge yourself so." Someone new interrupted from his other side. The voice was beautiful and as Thorin turned around he saw that the woman it belonged to was no less so.

Her dress was the colour of rich green leaves and her straw blond hair was so long, that it spilled down her back onto the floor in gleaming waves. Upon her head rested a crown woven of ivy and vibrant flowers. Bilbo would have known the name of each of them and likely scolded him for not knowing a single one. He could almost see the indignant Hobbit in his mind, shaking his head and sighing at him, exasperated. 'How you survived this long, I will never understand', he would have said. 'I bet you'd eat poisonous mushrooms thinking they were truffles if I didn't watch out for you!'

When the woman move to take her place to the right of Mahal, Thorin noticed two more peculiar things about her appearance. The first was that she was barefoot, and that wherever her feet touched the earth small flowers and grasses sprouted to life. The second was the single wooden bead he could see in her hair. Where before Thorin had thought the woman barren of all jewellery, once she turned around he could not help but notice the delicate ornament. It had been craved with care from a dark wood, inlaid with small gemstones and then polished to a shine. Now it fixated the two simple braids that ran from her temples to the back of her head.

Even though the choice of material was unusual, its purpose was obvious to Thorin: It was a wedding bead.

“Lady Yavanna”, Thorin said in realization, for it was who she was. The Green Lady, Valar of all Flora and the Wife of Mahal.

“Your empathy for these children of mine does you honour, Thorin Thrain's son. But do not burden yourself with guilt for their fate. It was the destiny of Bilbo Baggins to find the Ring and it was Frodo's destiny to destroy it. You were merely an instrument in ensuring they would walk their intended paths. Now that the deed is done and the world is forever rid of Morgoth's Shadow they are as free as every other being in Arda, and so are you.”

“Destiny it might have been”, said Thorin, “and I might be tempted to believe it. Yet, there is no path I can take and no penance I could suffer that would absolve me from what I did when the Gold Madness held me in.”

“He forgave you”, reminded Mahal.

“I was dying and he is a good soul. No good dwarf holds grudges with the dead and no good Hobbit would either. I shall never know if he would have forgiven me had I lived.”  
In the following silence Yavanna took the time to study Thorin's face closely. The dead dwarven King was one again watching the ocean. There were tears in his eyes but Thorin refused to let them fall.

“What would you do for a chance to know?” she asked after a while. Though the question had been quiet, ot broke the dwarf out of his melancholic contemplation with a jerk.

“What?”

“If there was a way for you to know, would you seek it? If there was a chance to make amends, would you take it?”  
This time when he answered Thorin's tone was raw and almost angry. “My Lady, I would do anything, give anything, to undo what I did. I wish I had never...” he trailed off. “But as you can see, I am dead. There is nothing that I can do that I have not tried already. No, all I can do as I am now is watch my friends as they yet live and be useless as they suffer.”

There was compassion in the Lady's tone when she answered, but it was a distant sort of emotion, as if she could only understand Thorin's pain in the most abstract sense.  
“Yes, it is true that you are no longer among the living, and I must say I am glad for it for I could not speak to you otherwise. You are truly a curious dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield. Yes, my husband,” she said as she turned to Mahal, “I do believe you chose correctly.”  
Once more looking at the so titles 'curious dwarf', she continued. “My husband and I have a proposition for you, Once-King.” She paused as if to make sure she had his full attention, then she said; “There is an object of little power but of great beauty and importance that I wish retrieved from Arda. However, my children - the Ents - are in ill-fitted to the task and any direct intervention with the affairs of living souls is forbidden to us Valar. In addition, circumstances have since made it impossible for the artefact to be recovered without repercussions.”

Thorin could not imagine where Yavanna was going with this. It was true that, since he was dead and therefore exempted from the 'no interference with the living' rule, the Valar could intrude on his business to their hearts content, though they had never done so before. Be that as it may, him being dead also made him useless for any sort of task in the living world, as he had had to admit to himself years ago.

“So we will set before you a Quest, Thorin Oakenshield. You will be send back into the world of the living, to a time where the retrieval of my artefact was still possible. We are granting you a second chance with this, but whether it is used well will solely depend on you.” Thorin stared at the Valar with open shock. Surely he had misheard? His mouth fell open but he could not speak. It was too much, too many conflicting emotions warring for the upper hand within him. Hope, fear, grief, joy, anger...  
He had not yet collected himself when Mahal took the word. “Your journey will be long and hard. On it, you will find allies old and new as well as enemies. You will face tragedy and loss, hurt and despair. However, if you can prove yourself stronger then the hardships you shall face, this road might just lead you to the redemption you so crave.”  
“Now, Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, second of your name, will you accept the Quest we bestow on you?”

Even with his mind in disarray as it was, there could only be one answer. “If there is a chance, even the slightest one, then I will take it.”  
Both Valar smiled and Yavanna began to hum softly. Her form seemed glow and light danced in her eyes like rays of sunshine falling through the roof of a mighty forest. Slowly she raised her hands towards the rising sun and when she lowered them again, she was holding a tiny crystal flower that glowed a like a dying ember. She smiled at him and stepped forward. “Take this with you. In time you shall know why it was given,” she said as she laid the flower into Thorin's hands. It was a small, delicate thing and felt strangely warm to the touch. Thorin had to take care not to damage it when he stored it into one of his pockets. The Lady smiled and stepped back. “You walk with my blessing.”

In her place, Mahal stepped forward, both hands clasping Thorin's shoulders as he brought their foreheads together. The face of his maker seemed ageless. Not a single wrinkle marred his bronze skin, only a few lines of laughter were around his golden eyes. The youthful face should have clashed with the length of his beard but somehow it only seemed fitting. Mahal's skin felt like liquid heat as he touched him. "I, too, shall bestow a gift upon you," and from the folds of his cloak the Valar produced a horn craved from plain grey stone. “Use this when all other paths are bared and help will find you. You travel with my blessing.” Thorin accept the gift with gratitude and stored it away as well. Mahal nodded in satisfaction and stepped backwards with a small smile twisting his beard.

  
"With this now go, child of stone, change what was but do not expect to find all the same as you once did." Yavanna's and Mahal's voices mingled together as if slowly becoming one voice. "Go now Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the mountain. May your past become your present."  
Darkness spread across his vision and then swallowed him whole. He saw nothing and could only hear their voice echoing in his ears as he lost consciousness. His last thought was that he never got to ask what it was that was supposed to retrieve for the Lady Yavanna.

* * *

_Blood was running the cold stones in rivulets. It had sunken into the earth and turned the glen into a muddy terrain. In the sky, crows were circling the field. Thorin stood there surrounded by the bodies of those who had fallen. The battle was over. They had won. Yet, Thorin felt no elation, only bone deep weariness. He felt hollow as he stared at the corpses that littered the ground. Blood was clinging to his skin like war paint. It seemed to be everywhere. So much death, so much bloodshed. What would he not give to see something other than red, to taste something other than iron?_

  
_With heavy steps Thorin moved across the battlefield, passing by the corpses of dwarrows and orcs alike. He knew it to be untrue but here, in this valley near drowning in blood, they all seemed the same to him. Thorin was aware that he was well past his limit. He was still a growing dwarf, a child, no matter how one chose to look at him and this battle had taken everything he had to give and then kept taking. He could barely stand. Had he stopped moving then, he would have dropped like a stone and likely not woken up again. So he kept on walking further._  
  
_Something glinted in the distance, reflecting the sunlight. He would have thought it some piece of armour or maybe a discarded weapon lying on the soaked earth – for there was no shortage of either – had it not been for the golden tint the glittering light held. He frowned. In the back of his mind, something told him that this was important. He changed his direction._

_Once he reached that which had grabbed his attention, he bend down and gently picked it up. It was a bead. Such a tiny thing. His frown deepened. Thinking through the haze of exhaustion was difficult but... he knew this bead. A strangled sound escaped him. Of course he knew this bead. He had crafted it himself over twenty years ago. It lacked the finesse he had acquired since; just a simple bronze pearl engraved with a sun. It had been his present to Frerin on his twentieth birthday and had seen it in his brother's hair every day since. Frerin would have never left it behind by choice. A sudden feeling of foreboding dread swept away the fog around his thoughts. His brother. Where was his little brother?! He whirled around, frantic eyes searching the corpses that littered the ground._

  
_"Frerin!" He shouted and listened as his voice echoed across the battle field. It was drowned out almost immediately by the screams of the dying and those seeking to aid them. If he could have speared the breath, Thorin might have cursed._

  
_"Frerin! Naddith!" Thorin's cries rose with in volume as he received no answer. "Frerin!" His gaze swept over the fallen hoping and fearing to see his little brother amongst them. His heart was hammering in his ears. The adrenaline was back, banishing away every last dreg of hurt and exhaustion. It would be a short-lived blessing. Thorin needed to hurry. He managed a few steps further south before something stopped him in this tracks. His eyes widened and a pained, half-choked sound escaped him._  
_Beneath the black-bloodied corpse of an armour clad orc he had caught a glimpse of soft, golden hair._

  
_"No..." The word that fell from his lips, was no more than a breath. He shook his head in denial, then he broke out into a run, hoping against hope that he was not too late. He reached the fallen orc, fell to his knees and immediately starting to push the foul smelling body off. Beneath the orc caught sight of the still form of his younger brother._  
_"Naddith," Thorin whispered. He reached out with careful fingers and caressed Frerin's cheek. His skin was snow-white and cold as ice. It was painted a strange mixture of red and black, blood both orcish and dwarven colouring it like a canvas. Most of it appeared to be Frerin's own. He was not moving._

  
_"No. No no no. NO! Frerin, brother, please don't do this to me." Thorin grasped his brother by the shoulders and shook him lightly. "Wake up!"_

  
_Nothing happened. Frerin's eyes remained closed, his body unresponsive. Under the armour it was near impossible to see if his chest was moving with breath. Thorin tried once more, panic creeping up on him and this time he was shaking a little harder. "Frerin, wake up!" Tears where burning in Thorin's eyes, blurring his vision and he wiped at them angrily. His breath was coming out in short pained gasps that had nothing to do with his own injuries._

  
_This could not be. He could not have fought his way through and survived this bloodshed only to find that Frerin had...That his brother had..._

  
_A small groan escaped the still dwarf's bloodied lips. Whatever air there had been left in Thorin's lungs, left it with a cry of hope. He was alive. Frerin yet lived. There was still hope. Thorin lowered Frerin back down to the ground and stood._

  
_"Help!", he shouted. "Help! I need a healer!" But even as he shouted he knew it would be no use. They were too far away from where the centre of the battle had been. If there were any healers at all heading in their direction they would not reach them in time. Still, he had to try. He screamed for help, as loud as he could. Again and again until his voice turned hoarse. No one heard him and when his eyes fell once more on Frerin's lips, slightly parted and letting out shallow breathes and pained moans, Thorin had to admit to himself that if anyone was going to save his brother, it was going to be him._

  
_He brushed the tears that still blurred his vision out of his eyes and knelt down to set to work. Despair filled him as he first noticed the true extend of his brother's wounds. "Prioritize," he told himself. Shallow cuts and broken bones could be worried about later. No, what alarmed Thorin the most where the three arrows protruding from his brother's chest and the oozing wound on his forehead. It look as if it might have been inflicted by a mace and as Thorin took a closer look, he caught a glimpse of a something white. The skull was visible, he realised with a start. That settled it. Head-wound first._

  
_He ripped of what was left of his cloak, bunched it into a ball and pressed it to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. "Come on now, brother. Wake up," he murmured, unsure if it would not be more of a kindness for his brother to stay unconscious but unable to bring himself to care. He needed to see his brother awake to reassure himself that they would both see another sun rise in the morning."You are stronger than this. This bloody field can't take you from us, I won't let it."_

  
_Thorin kept on the pressure as well as the soft murmurings and miraculously, after a short and panic-filled while, Frerin's blue eyes flickered open. They were glazed over with pain and and it was clear the focusing on what was before him took all strength that was left within Frerin's broken body._

  
_"T-Tho...rin." Frerin said the name in a broken voice even as his lips pulled into a weak smile._

  
_"I am here, naddith. I'm right here. " Thorin said. A tremor ran through his frame making his voice unsteady. His right hand that he had been using to hold himself up over the ground found Frerin's cold left and laced their fingers together. He leaned forward so that his little brother could have a clear view of his face._  
_"I-I'm ...." Frerin took a few feeble breaths that sounded painful._

  
_"Help! We need a healer!" Thorin cried one more time, looking up and around, frantically trying to find somebody who could help. There was no one. Nothing had changed. He was still on his own, on the far side of the battlefield, with his brother whimpering in pain and slowly bleeding out besides him. Slowly dying. The realisation hit Thorin with the pain of a burning sword piercing his back. Frerin would die if he could not get him to a competent healer in time and the chances of that happening where..._

  
_"Th-o...or..." Thorin hushed his brother, trying and failing to keep his dread out of his voice. He felt like dying himself. Could it be that he had found his brother still breathing, only to witness his life slip away form him? Could fate truly be so cruel? "Be silent, naddith," he choked out. “You need to safe your strength.”_

  
_"I...I'm ....sc-a....red." Thorin felt ice-cold fingers squeeze his heart as he looked into his brother's fear filled eyes, still hazy from the pain. He swallowed. "T-There is nothing to be scared of, Tahel. You will be all right." Thorin tried to keep his voice steady but the horror over his epiphany was clawing at his heart. Fresh tears where obscure his vision once more, and this time he let them fall freely. He did not have the strength left to hold them back. Still, he had to at least try to reassure his little brother. Even if there was nothing else he could do anymore. He let the blood soaked cloak fall to the ground. The bleeding had stopped but Thorin feared that it was only because Frerin's body did not have any blood left to bleed. He sat up and pulled his little brothers head into his lap. "Everything will be all right. I've got you."_  
  
_Thorin raised his head, looking around for any kind of aid. "Someone help us! Please!" Thorin sobbed, this time so quiet, he doubted even Frerin heard him._  
_"I -I.." Frerin's voice had gotten even frailer. Thorin looked back down towards his brother. His shoulders were trembling, shaking with ill-concealed sobs. Frerin on the other hand lay perfectly still._

  
_Thorin's trembling left hand was caressing Frerin's blood matted hair, his right once more holding onto the dying dwarves ice-cold left. "I ...d-do ....n....ot..." Fear and despair were clearly visible on his brother’s face and Thorin felt like his world was breaking apart in front of him. Frerin's breathing was becoming even more laboured. "...w-want..... t...to ....die." Tears gathered in Frerin's eyes and rolled down sideways over his blood smeared cheeks, vanishing into his hair._  
  
_Thorin felt as if someone had taken the heart out of his chest, pierced it with a thousand needles, rolled it in salt and then put it back. The tears that where already rolling down his cheeks increased in number and a wrenched sob broke free from his chest._

  
_"You will not die!" Thorin shouted in denial. The last bits of his rational mind leaving him in his grief. "You cannot die! No! I refuse it! By Mahal's name, live! Please." Thorin chocked out. "Please. Don't leave me alone."_

  
_"T-Tho...ri...n” Frerin fought to get the words past his lips. Thorin sobbed as he clung to his brother. He knew what he had wanted to say._  
_"Me too." Thorin choked out as he kissed Frerin's forehead. A weak smile pulled on Frerin's lips so unlike his usual broad and cheerful grin. “Thank...” Slowly his eyes slipped shut._

  
_"NO! Don't! Stay awake, Tahel! Please!" Thorin begged as he pulled Frerin up higher into his lap. "Don't! Please! You cannot do this to me! Wake up!" But Frerin did not rouse at Thorin's pleas. He drew one more rasping breath, then another and then, there was nothing. Frerin, son of Thrain drew his last breath in his brother’s arms._

  
_A roar of anguish tore itself from Thorin's throat. He could feel himself shatter as Frerin's heart ceased to beat. He cared not for the tears that were now sliding freely down his cheeks nor for the sobs that wrecked his frame. He was shaking from the force of his grief. Another cry of broke free from him, this one louder than any before, as he rocked his little brother's body in his arms. He screamed his grief and despair to the sky as loud as he could manage with his broken voice. He screamed so that even the Valar might hear, and so they would know what pain they had brought upon Arda by taking this light from its plain so soon._

  
_When his voice was gone Thorin buried his face in Frerin's sodden hair and cried. Underneath the dirt and blood there was still a faint smell of leather, wood and cranberries. The life that once had been. He squeezed his eyes shut, no longer able to stand the sight of Frerin's mangled body. He was so still in his arms. Cold and unmoving. It was wrong to see his brother like this. Frerin had never been able to sit still, always fidgeting._

  
_He didn't know for how long he cried. Frerin's body was growing even colder, the last bits of life's warmth leaving him forever. "I'm so sorry, Ibrizinlêkh." Thorin croaked, his voice hoarse from his crying and shouting, as he clutched his dead brother close. Carefully but with shaking hands, Thorin brushed his brother's hair out of his face._

  
_Frerin had been their sun. He had been the only thing that could make their grandfather smile aside from the gold, even if only for a second. He had managed to pull their father out if his dark thoughts of dragon fire and crushing responsibility. He had been able to make their sister Dís, ever one to worry, forget the prospects of their bleak future. He managed ... had managed to lift Thorin's out of his darkest moods with nothing but his mere presence. His laughter had warmed them even in the darkest days. No fire could ever have competed with the warmth his little brother had been able to spread._

  
_Thorin still remembered when his father had handed him Frerin just after his birth. Still remembered Frerin's tiny weight of when he held him in his arms for the first time. He had listened to his brother as he took the earliest breaths of his life. Now he had held him in his arms as he had died, no more breaths to take, no more jokes or laughs, no more cries and no more pouts. He would never hear his brother call his name again, never be teased by him again. He would no longer hear his joyous laughter, never see that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He would never again be awoken by Frerin sneaking into his room at night after a nightmare. Thorin's little baby brother was gone, the one he had sworn to protect. He had failed._

  
_Numbly Thorin bend down to place a kiss to the forehead of his brother's corpse, then lay down and curled up on the cold earth next to him. It was where they would be found later the next day._

  
_Later the healers would tell Thorin that there was nothing that could have been done for his brother. They would tell him that he did all he could and not to place the blame on himself where it didn't belong. That he should celebrate his victory over Azog the Defiler with the people, not wallow in sadness in the back of a healer's tent. They would say their “We are sorry”’s and “We grief with you”'s but their words would not register._

  
_It would take Thorin many years to realize that he had lost far more than a brother on that day._

 

 

* * *

Thorin's eyes snapped open, tears trailing down his cheeks. He sucked the air into his lungs as fanatically as if he had just been submerged in the depths of an ocean. It felt like retaking his first breath. He squeezed his eyes shut as the tears continued to flow down his cheeks. It had been a long time since he had last dreamed of Frerin. He had pushed the death of his little brother to the furthest corner of his mind. The last time he had remembered his death and allowed himself to endure the pain that came with it had been before he had embarked on his quest to reclaim Erebor, which had led to even more pain and death. Fíli's and Kíli's laughing faces appeared in his mind. He clenched his hands into fists as he tried to banish the dark thoughts that threatened to consume his mind.  
  
He opened his eyes and stared at the roof of a tent. A confused frown appeared on his face. He remembered standing at the Grey Havens watching the boat disappear in the distance. The maker and the queen of the earth had been standing by his side. He could still hear their words ringing in his ears as he slowly sat up. He had been laying on a cot inside a tent. The tent was sparsely decorated. Furs were hanging on the linen walls to keep the cold at bay. A wooden chest was standing in the corner next to a small wooden desk that looked like it would collapse if one more scroll was placed onto it. Thorin couldn't remember how he had gotten here.  
  
Also curious was the fact that his hands were made of bones and flesh, no longer the silvery smoke-like substance that his body had become after he refused to enter Mahal's halls. He stared at his hands in wonder. He flexed each finger slowly and watched as his muscles moved beneath his skin. He didn't understand how or why he was solid once more when he hadn't been for all the years that he wandered Middle-earth so far. Carefully he reached his hand out towards the thick furs he had lain beneath while he had slept. Gently his hand stroked through them. He could feel them. He could feel every single hair tickling his fingers as his fingers trailed across the fur. He could touch it without his hands going through them. He had been unable to touch anything in the living word for the last 80 years, so why should he be able to do so now, all of a sudden.  
  
Slowly he pulled the covers back and stood up. His gaze continued to stray over the items laying scattered in the tent. His heartbeat stopped for a moment as his eyes landed on the armour laying next to the cot he had been sleeping on. He felt ice fill his veins as he saw the heavy iron armour. Dark grey plates with the Durin crest engraved into the centre. The heavy, square helmet with tiny slits for the eyes was laying next to it. Almost as if he was in trance, did he move towards the desk he had noticed before. A map was spread out beneath the scrolls. A map of Azanulbizar. That wretched valley where so many lost their lives. Where thousands of Dwarrows had fallen by the hands of Orcs and where his little brother had lost his life. The place of the Battle of Azanulbizar.  
  
With suspicion growing in his mind, he grabbed a tunic and trouser from within the chest and hastily put them on. He didn't spare the time to bind the laces of his heavy boots as he was already walking could see tents upon tents were set up on the uneven ground. Dwarrows of all clans mingled between them, sharpening their weapons underneath the blazing sun. A guard was standing beside the entrance of his tent. Hethin was his name and Thorin remembered seeing his corpse among the fallen. He had died by an orcish arrow that had pierced his throat. He noticed Thorin watching him and nodded once. With a blank mind Thorin nodded back. He could see him. Nobody had been able to see him in the last 80 years. He tore his gaze away from the dwarf whose corpse he had seen lying in his own blood after the battle. A battle that, apparently, hadn't happened yet.  
  
'May your past become your present.' The final words of Mahal and Yavanna rang in his ears as he stared at the dwarrows that would fight tomorrow, many of them would fall. Thorin took a staggering step backwards. He had returned to life! And not only that, he had been send back to the past. 'Would you want to go back and change things?' Mahal's words rang in his mind. He had a second chance. He could make things right. He could save so many people from so much pain. He could save Dís from her anguish as she held the bodies of Fíli and Kíli in her arms. He could watch them grow once more and prevent their death on the battlefield in front of Erebor's gates. He might even be able to stop Lake-Town from being consumed by dragon fire. He could save Bilbo from the corruption the ring had caused over the years. He could make sure that little Frodo would never have to carry that burden. He might even be able to influence the battles that had taken places years after his death, pave the path for Aragorn's reclaiming of Gondor. But most importantly right now, he could save his little brother's life. Frerin's laughing face flashed in front of his eyes.

He knew it was a fool's hope but he took a deep breath and started running, rushing past the tents and the armoured dwarrows mingling about. He vaguely remembered the layout of the camp and as he dodged a dwarf carrying heavy battle axes a flagpole came into view that he knew was close to where he needed to be. Some of the dwarrows he passed were calling out to him but he ignored them. Voices that he had long since forgotten were calling greetings. Voices whose speakers would fall tomorrow. He cared about them but in this very moment he cared only for one.  
  
He made a sharp turn towards the right, past a colourful tent and nearly ran into a dwarf who was carrying a heavy basket full of loafs. Breakfast. Thorin called a quick apology over his shoulder in Khuzdul and continued running. When the dark blue tent came into view, he recognized it instantly. His steps grew slower until he came to a full stop a few meters in front of the entrance. His heart squeezed painfully as he thought of what awaited him inside. However, before he could decide whether or not to step inside, somebody walked out of the tent.  
  
Frerin looked just the way he had preserved him in his memory. Thick, golden hair that spilled over his shoulder in what appeared to be an untameable mess. It looked like as if he had just rolled out of bed. Two strands of hair were braided and clasped together at the back of his head with the bead Thorin had made him. They had seen better days and were becoming loose. In comparison to the bird nest that was his hair, Frerin's beard was almost neat. Three claps were holding the short beard together or rather preventing it from becoming just as much of a mess as his hair was. His dark red tunic was rumpled as if he had slept in it, which he most likely had. A sword was hanging on the left side of his thick, runes engraved leather belt and a quiver with grey feathered arrows was hanging on his right. A bow was slung over his left shoulder. His gaze was locked onto the sky where a hawk was flying through the sky circling above them. He remembered that it had been a dream of Frerin's to fly through the sky as if he had wings of his own. Only when the hawk disappeared in the distance did Frerin's gaze stray from the sky and return to his immediate surroundings. His eyes, a deep ocean blue but still a shade lighter than his brother's, landed on Thorin. A wide smile broke out across his features, lightening his face with joy. He was almost burning with life.  
  
"Good morning, nadad."  He called and, when Thorin failed to return his greeting, a worried frown passed over his features as he took in Thorin's dark expression. After he thought for a second a guilty glint hushed through Frerin's eyes. Which was what shook Thorin out of his stupor. With determined steps he made his way over to his little brother.  
  
"If you're still mad about the frog incident, I already-" Whatever else Frerin had wanted to say about the frog he had put in Thorin's soup the day before was cut off as Thorin pulled his brother into a bone crushing embrace. He chose to ignore the sword pommel that dug painfully into his hips. Instead he relished in the warmth of Frerin's body in his arms.

Frerin had frozen in confusion at Thorin's sudden display of affection. He returned the hug hesitantly, utterly confused as to why his usually so emotionally repressed older brother was clinging to him in public. Thorin's arms only tightened around Frerin as he felt his brother hug him back. Frerin was warm, he could feel his chest rise and fall with every breath he took. His little brother was alive. He felt tears gather. As he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.  
  
"Nadad? Thorin?" Frerin asked softly, worry evident in his voice but Thorin was in no state to offer any sort of reassurance. Instead he only clung onto Frerin tighter. With horror Frerin realized that Thorin was trembling and that he could feel a wetness spreading on his shoulder. Thorin was crying. His big brother never cried. He had not been seen shedding tears at their mother’s deathbed, nor after they had lost their home. He had not wept when their grandfather's head had been presented to them with the name 'Azog' craved into his forehead. Dís and him were the ones who cried and leaned on Thorin when they did. Thorin was their safety and comfort, their safe harbour in the storm. Now Thorin was the one crying and Frerin didn't know what to do, except returning the hug as tightly as he could and glaring at anybody who looked at them.  
  
"It's all right. Everything's fine, nadad. You're all right." Helplessly, Frerin started to murmur reassurances hoping that somehow they would work. Thorin clung to him for what felt like hours but could have been no more than a few minutes. When Thorin finally stopped trembling, he took a reluctant step back as if he didn't want to let go of him. His hands were curling around Frerin's arms as he gently rested his forehead against him. Thorin's eyes were closed and Frerin could see the tear-tracks on his brother’s cheeks where they disappeared into his beard.  
  
"What happened, nadad?" Frerin asked. He was shaken as well. He had never before seen his brother break down this way. The worried feeling he had felt like swallowing a cartload of iron ore. Then Thorin's eyes opened and Frerin was horrified by the pain and sadness he could see in them. His big brother's eyes were bloodshot as if it had not been the first time he had cried today.    
  
"It's nothing, Tahel." Thorin's lips twitched slightly as the nickname left his lips. There was a disbelieving kind of wonder on his face that Frerin couldn't explain to himself. Still, Frerin was not sure who Thorin was trying to fool but it was not going to work on him.  
  
"If that was nothing then I'm an elf." Frerin deadpanned and, as expected, Thorin scowled at the mention of Elves. A small bit of weight left Frerin at the clear expression of dislike for anything elfish.  
  
"Tell me, nadad." Frerin reached out and tucked sharply on one of Thorin's braids.  
  
"It was just a dream." Thorin said after a moment of silence. Now it was Frerin's time to scowl.  
  
"That was not just a dream, stop acting like such an Abanjable and tell me." Thorin arched an eyebrow at the insult but otherwise held his tongue. Frerin sighed and then looked at Thorin with his most pleading expression. Huge eyes and pouting lips. It had helped him escape quite a few punishments over the years and had often gotten him his will in the past.  
  
"That hasn't worked in years, Tahel." Thorin said with a small chuckle. Frerin pouted all the more and then added in his most pleading and vulnerable voice: "Please?"  
  
Thorin groaned at the sight and spoke, "Fine, it was a nightmare."  
  
"That is not a clarification." Frerin said dryly as he watched his brother closely. Thorin's posture was stiff and, though his eyes were guarded now, Frerin could still see the pain in them. He raised his hand and laid it on his brothers shoulder.  
  
"Please, nadad." Frerin asked softly. Thorin closed his eyes and pressed his forehead harder against Frerin's before he took a single step backwards. With their foreheads no longer touching, Thorin turned his head to the side, eyes distant. He saw his brother take a deep breath.  
  
"You died." Thorin had to force himself to say the words and they felt as if they were torn from his throat. It hurt to say them out loud. Just as it had hurt when he had to tell Dís that their brother had fallen. He could still remember her cries when he had held her in his arms. Trying to comfort her had been near impossible with his own heart shattered as it had been.  
  
"Thorin, please look at me." Frerin asked gently. Thorin kept his head turned unable to look into his brother's face without risking another breakdown. Careful fingers, rough from the hard work at the forges, softly touched the side of his face. With barely any force at all, they turned Thorin's head so that he had to meet Frerin's eyes. Gently Frerin rested his forehead against Thorin's.  
  
"I won't die." Thorin nearly could not resisted the urge to either start crying or laughing at the unfairness of it all. Frerin had died. He had been wounded by an Orc and left to bleed out on the blood drenched battlefield.  
  
"Nadad, I promise I won't. By Mahal's silver beard, I swear to you that I will not die." Frerin swore earnestly. A promise to be so easily broken by an orcish blade and a single moment of distraction. Frerin frowned as he noticed that the pain still had not left his brothers eyes.  
  
"I won't die, after all you wouldn't let me die before you've gotten payback for the frog, right?" Frerin stated with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. But Thorin nearly did not notice as the words resonated within him. He would not let Frerin die. Not a second time. He would not be able bear losing him again. He would do everything in his power to ensure that his brother lived to see many more sunrises after the battle.

  
"Right. I will not let you die." Thorin stated grimly as his hands gripped Frerin's shoulders tightly.  
Thorin took a step back before asking, "Where is father?" He would not let his little brother die, even if it took going against their father's, the king's orders.  
  
  
"Um- In his tent? Why?" Frerin answered, slightly befuddled at the sudden change of topic. But before he could ask another question, Thorin had already whirled around and resolutely walked away into the direction of the king's tent. Frerin calling his name behind him was resolutely ignored.  
"Thorin, I hope you are not planning to do what I think you are planning to do!" He called after him but again received no answer.  
  
"Mahal help us! You're not planning on just walking right up there and storming into his tent, are you? Thorin!" Frerin exclaimed as he hastily followed after his elder brother. "He is in the middle of a meeting you can't just barge in there! Are you listening to me?! Thorin!"  
  
Frerin threw his hands up in surrender as Thorin simply continue to ignore him and briskly walked on. His ridiculous brother would have to deal with Thrain's shouting on his own. He would not get involved. He had already been shouted at yesterday for the arrow-to-the-king's-advisor's-butt incident. Neither Fundin nor Thrain had been exactly pleased with him. He had no intention to get shouted at again. The guards outside the King's tent shared a confused glance as the crown prince rushed towards them. Before they even had a chance to react, Thorin had already stormed past them and into the tent. Frerin sent them an apologetic glance before walking around the tent. He made himself comfortable on the ground in a position that allowed him to peek through a hole in the back of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Translations
> 
> abanjabel - Stonehead (insult)  
> ibrizinlêkh - sunshine  
> nadad - brother  
> naddith - little brother  
> tahel - laugh of all laughs
> 
> Age conversion (as calculated by us).
> 
> We have decided to go with the character's ages as dedicted by book canon, which not only makes Thorin the eldest of the company but also means he is considerably younger than he looked in the movie during the events of Azanulbizar. The age conversion rates have been attached for your convenience.
> 
> Dwaven years to human years - Each one dwarven year is equal to 4.12 human years.  
> Hobbit to human - Each one hobbit year is equal to 1.65 human years.  
> Dwarven to hobbit - Each one dwarven year is equal to 2.3 hobbit years.
> 
> We base these calculations on the ages of maturity and the general life spans of the different races as they have been described by Tolkien.
> 
> Characters age in human years:
> 
> Thorin (current physical age) (53) 12 1/2  
> Frerin (48) 11 3/4


	2. Haunting II

oOo

The strategy meeting had been in session since the first light of day. Now, it was noon and not only was it the air in the tent close to suffocating him, but Thráin was also sure that, had he the mind to try, he would be able to cut the tension in it with his battleaxe. The problem was not that he was unused to these kind of meetings. It were not the long-winded explanations for each proposed move or the endless discussions of strategy, tactics and backup plans that exhausted him. It was the utter inability to cooperate, as shown by his fellow clan heads that drove the exiled King to frustration.

Especially Heptar, the leader of the Ironfist Clan, had so far been unable to agree with any plan Thráin proposed. Indeed, he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in shooting down each of the King's ideas. Had Heptar at least made suggestions of his own, Thráin might have been able to work with him. As it was, they had been in this tent for more than five hours, standing around the same round table, starring at the same map, moving around the same little stone dwarrows and orcs and still had nothing to show for it. They had been going around in circles for days. Now, the battle was less than a day away and their strategy was little more than 'overwhelm them with numbers'. That, Thráin knew, was ludicrous as they had no way to know how many Orcs and Goblins they would be facing.

To some degree, Thráin could understand the other dwarf's hostility. The feud between their clans went back many generations and he himself would have preferred not to ask the Ironfists for assistance. It had been a hard blow to his pride to admit that they needed the help. Desperation and grief had driven him and he was not so delusional that he could not see it. For his people were starving and homeless while their ancestrally home was inhabited by the disgusting vermin that had murdered his father.

And then here was this dwarf, all but ruining their chances of victory with his stubbornness over a feud so old that no one knew why it even existed anymore.

It was more than frustrating and Thráin felt seconds away from throttling the stone-headed dwarf when the flaps of the tent were suddenly thrown wide open.

“What is it now?” he growled under his breath before looking up. This had better be life threateningly important or someone was going to lose a braid. Didn't these people know that the council was not to be disturbed?

It was Thorin. The dwarf that dared to disturb the meeting was his own son.

His son, who was now walking towards the table with a confidence in his stride that Thráin had never seen in him before. Thorin's hand was resting lightly on the pommel of his sword and the look on this face was one of unshakable determination. He seemed ignorant of the partially curious, partially angry looks the rest of the council send him.

When his son reached the table he bowed once in greeting. "My King."

"Thorin," while Thráin's voice was dark with anger, he was also wondering what on Middle Earth could be so important that Thorin would risk his fury. "I dearly hope you have a reason for this most untimely interruption. You know you are not to disturb the council's meetings."

Thorin inclined his head respectfully before he answered. It seemed like not all his etiquette lessons had been a waste of time. "Yes, I am aware and I do apologize for the intrusion.”

Thráin had to commend his son's calm under the scrutiny of himself and his fellow leaders if nothing else. Never in his life had Thorin been timid, that was true. Still, just yesterday Thráin had seen him chase after his brother and hitting him with a frog of all things. Today Thorin stood before him with a bearing more fit for a King then for a Dwarfling of only just five decades, be he a Prince or not.

“Well then, out with it!”, said Thráin impatiently. He truly did not have the time for this and the fact that his fellow clan-heads where watching the exchange closely did not help either.

"I need to know something regarding tomorrow’s battle." Thráin noticed how his son kept his expression carefully blank when he finally answered.

"You will be briefed this evening, at the same time as everybody else, as you well know." He waved his hand in a gesture that should have been a clear dismissal. No matter what this was about, it would have to wait. Besides, he could not give information about a battle strategy that did not yet exist even if he wanted to.

"True, father, but I want to know where you are planning to station Frerin?" Thorin asked. Thráin looked up from the map once more. The impertinence was grating on his already short nerves and he could feel his anger rising slowly.

"Thorin, you knew the answer to this question before you came here. He will be leading his own unit, as is royal custom. Same as you. Now, please, stop wasting the council’s valuable time." Thráin said, irritation tainting his voice. That his sons would lead their own units was one of the few things that were clear and decided about this whole mess. Thorin knew so, as did Frerin. They had known before they had even departed from the Dunlands.

Thráin had already made to turn back to the map on the table, when he was interrupted once more. „No, I don't believe he will."

He turned around, this time to openly stare at his son who had dared show such impudence in the face of not only his King but the entire Ruling Council of the Dwarrows. And he wasn't the only one. All the Dwarrows in the tent, even normally unshakable Fundin, were now looking at Thráin's son with varying degrees of surprise and shock on their faces. Thorin had never before dared to deify his King so openly. Why he was suddenly doing this now, one day before their great battle was beyond them.

“I think I might have misheard. Would you care to repeat that, Thorin?”

"I said; Frerin will not be leading his own unit." Thorin stated once more. His son's voice was calm but his eyes were practically burning into Thráin's. "He will in fact be in my unit, fighting by my side." _Where I can protect him._ Thorin hadn't said it aloud but he might as well have shouted it in his face.

So that was it. Thorin was worried and Thráin couldn't even blame him of it, not truly. Not when he himself was.

"Thorin, you know it is expected of the Princes to lead. Frerin will be no exception." Thráin ground out.

"I have found that I care little for tradition if it could cost us my brother's life." Thorin exclaimed. His voice still dangerously calm.

"Thorin." Thráin sighed. "You have trained with your brother for many years. Are you telling me that you do not trust your brother's skills in battle?"

"Do not imply that I don't trust my brother!" Thorin snarled. It was the first time that he raised his voice during this conversation and also the first time his true emotions could be seen through his carefully blank exterior. _He is afraid,_ Thráin realized with a start as Thorin went on. _He truly is afraid._

"I trust my brother's skills near as much as I trust my own but I do not trust the orcs. He is only just forty-eight and I..."

Thráin held up a hand to silence him and cut of what certainly would have been an impressive tirade of words. It seemed he had been wrong. This could not wait. Best sort it out immediately. “My dear friends and councilmen if you would excuse me for a moment.” He did not wait for an answer as he took Thorin by the forearm and dragged him out of the tent. They went on for a short time until they reached a relatively quiet area where Thráin felt like they could talk openly.

“Now, I would very much like for you to tell me what this is all about.”

 

* * *

 

 

This was not what Thorin had expected. Granted, he did not know what he had expected when he had stormed away from Frerin and into the council's tent, adamant to save his brother.

“Father...”

“No, Thorin. Speak now or don't speak at all but if you want me to even consider leaving Frerin under your command then you will have to convince me that there is a reason. And best do it fast, because I need to go back to that tent before they start threatening each other with axes. Again.”

His father's voice was stern but not cold and it was what gave Thorin the hope that there was indeed a chance to sway him, a chance to save his little brother's life. But how? He couldn't very tell the truth. They didn't have the time, not to mention that Thráin would most likely call him crazy and dismiss him. No, the whole truth would not work, but maybe...

He took a deep breath to gather his thought, then he sighed and began to speak.

“I... I know this valley better then I know most other places on Middle Earth. You and I both know that I have never set foot in this place before and yet I could draw you a map of this place, more detailed then the one currently laying in that tent.”

“Thorin.” Thráin interrupted.

“Please, just let me speak. You can tell me that I'm crazy when I'm done.” Thráin looked at him with narrow eyes and nodded once. “Go on.”

“As I said, I have never set foot in this valley but I have been here before. For many years I have been dreaming of this very place. Of Orcs and Dwarrows locked in combat, dying left and right. I've been dreaming of a white Orc on a white Warg and of splintering shields and oaken branches. And I have dreamed of my brother dying. I dreamed of Frerin as I held him in my arms and I have heard him whisper his last words a hundred times and more. Tonight I had this dream again, and it seemed more real then, than it ever had before. When I realized that the place of my dream is where we are now, I could not just stand there and do nothing. I know how this sounds, believe me, but I can't take the risk. Not with Frerin. Not even for you.”

Thorin was trembling. He suddenly felt like a child again, younger even then his current body was. A huge part of his youth he had spent trying to make his father proud of him. This now could very well break the already strained relationship he had had with his father at this point. But it would be worth it, if it let him keep Frerin by his side. Frerin had to survive tomorrow, Thorin would worry about everything else after.

And then suddenly there was no breath left in his lungs because his father was hugging him and the last time that had happened was more than two centuries ago for Thorin. “You stupid Dwarfling! Why did you never say?”

“Adad...”

“You could have spoken to me of this. No, in fact, you should have spoken to me of this. Why does it take a war for you to open your mouth and...” He trailed of. “You inherited my bad habit of hiding your troubles until you explode, didn't you?” He asked and it seemed like his tone of voice couldn't decide between dry humour and despair.

Thorin winced. “It would appear so, yes. Does that mean you believe me?”, he mumbled into his father’s shoulder.

“Have I ever told how your brother came by his name?” Confused by the sudden change of topic, Thorin shook his head. His father sighed and took a step back, releasing him from his arms. “When your mother, Fís, was pregnant for the second time you were just five years old. The day came when she was to give birth and you were the one who was with her then rather than me.”

“Yes, I'm aware,” Thráin said at Thorin's incredulous look. “I was leading a patrol near Esgaroth at the time as my father, King Thror, had ordered me to. When the news reached me and I arrived at her bedside, your brother was already born and screaming louder than a hundred screeching Wargs. Your mother was asleep from exhaustion and you were standing next to the midwife telling her to 'gimme bwower, now!'. Of course as soon as I was through the door the midwife handed him to me which, for some reason, only made him scream louder. In all honesty, it was chaos.” Thorin watched in amazement as a light smile flashed over his father's features. Smiles and laughter were rare in these troubled times, but there it was. Tiny, but unmistakably a smile.

“And then the most amazing thing happened,” he continued. “You, tiny as you were back then, took your brother from my arms and immediately he was calm. You smiled at him and he laughed. It is one of my most treasured memories. You were rocking your new born brother back and forth as if you had never done differently and he was giggling and pulling on your braids with his tiny fingers.”

“When the midwife asked me what the child's outer name was to be, you were the one to answer. 'Frerin,' you said, 'Is Frerin.' And for the life of me I could not think of a more fitting name.”

Thorin looked at his father with astonishment. He had known that the bond he had with his brother ran deeper than that between most other siblings but for it to have been so even so early on was a surprise. He himself had been no more than a toddler at that age. It was a proud achievement that he could already walk and talk back then, let alone choose a name for his younger brother!

“Do you know why I told you of this now?” Numbly, Thorin shook his head. “I have known since the day of his birth that Frerin would be more your little brother then he would ever be my son. I loved him, as I did you and later your sister but you adored him and he adored you in return. You were the one to play with him, to learn with and to teach him. When he had troubles or nightmares he brought them to you. You were the one to praise him for his achievements before all others and I have never seen you prouder than the day you two returned from your first hunt with a stag that had an arrow sticking right out of its eye. The bond you share with your brother is stronger than mithril, and unique in a way that I cannot explain. It is not impossible that Irmo would bless you with a warning, if Frerin truly was in danger.”

Thráin sighed once more. “But do you know how much work it is going to be, to explain this to the council? No, I do not want to hear it!” He said as Thorin opened his mouth to protest. “Yes, he will fight by your side. I would not be able to separate you two either way and I see now that it was futile to think of trying such. I will entrust his life and safety to you, nadanê.”

He looked at Thorin intently. “No matter what fate dictates, we write our own destiny, Thorin. Do not forget it.”

“Thank you, adad.” The relief was so overwhelming that Thorin couldn't keep it out of his voice entirely. Still, Thráin only nodded and turned to leave, yet before he had taken more than a few steps he turned to Thorin once more. “This matter is not closed however. When this battle is over you and I will talk and you will tell me all about these dreams of yours. Do you have any suggestions for our battle strategy, while we are at it? Still, it is not like it would change much as I cannot get that blasted council to agree with anyone on anything.”

“I am sure you will think of something. I'll talk to Fundin should I have any suggestion, shall I?” Thorin said, a thin smile curling his lips.

“Please do. I will see you in the evening then.” Thorin waited until Thráin was out of earshot, then he turned his head to a nearby group of tents.

“You can come out now, Frerin,” he said flatly. When his brother did not appear for a few moments more, he added, “I'm not stupid, little brother. Also, I can see your sword sticking out from behind the tent.”

There was a nervous laugh and then a rather sheepish looking Frerin walked up to him. “Caught me, huh? Why is it that I can never hide from you?”

"Because I am your elder brother and there is nothing you can hide from me. Do not change the subject. Just what do you think you were you doing?" Thorin asked with an arched eyebrow. Frerin looked up at him with a slightly guilty expression on his face before it was hidden by a blank mask.

"That is what I should be asking you." Frerin said with an eerie calm as he stood up. Thorin sighed. So Frerin had heard what they had been discussing. He wouldn't put it past his brother to peek into the tent through the opening and after that he had obviously followed their father and him. The question was now how much he had heard.

"Frerin ..." Thorin started but was interrupted by Frerin glaring darkly at him.

"What were you thinking?!" Frerin all but snarled. "You can't just bloody waltz into the council tent and demand battleplans from the King!"

"Language," Thorin muttered softly even as he winced at his brother's words. He had to admit, it hadn't been the most thought out of plans, even if it had worked out in the end.

Frerin glared at him. “Nadith,” Thorin said and tried to lay a calming hand on his brother's shoulder but Frerin shrugged it off and continued.

"How could you act so bloody foolish! He may be our father but he is also the King! You can't act that way to him and not expect consequences and you should bloody well know it, too!” Frerin's breath came in angry bursts as he continued in his rant. "And in front of all the clan leaders! You know what this means?! They will make him punish you and he will have to oblige them, you stupid idiot!"

Suddenly, Thorin realized that Frerin was not angry _at_ him or at least, that wasn't the whole of it. His brother was afraid _for_ him. He was scared that Thorin would receive punishment from their father or the council because of his concern for him. He probably felt some ridiculous form of guilt as well. That and his already heightened emotional state was causing him to lash out.

"Frerin," Thorin tried again, this time a little firmer, but his brother still would not hear him. Frerin was pacing back and forth grumbling about block-headed older brothers. That wouldn't do. He stepped forward, blocking Frerin's path, efficiently stopping him short. He quickly grabbed both of Frerin's shoulders and, before the younger had the chance to protest, he head-butted his brother. Hard. Frerin stumbled backwards in a daze and a startled noise escaping him.

"Now, are you listening to me?" Thorin asked with a huff while he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, yes, I'm listening. That hurt you know?” Frerin grumbled and rubbed his forehead.

“Oh, stop whining.” That little bump was nothing compared to the head-butts Dwalin dished out.

When he saw the continued glare in his brother's eyes, Thorin turned serious. He had to suppress a sigh before he started to speak. "Father won't punish me. At least not now, with the battle approaching and afterwards he and the other clanheads will be far too busy to even think about punishing one dwarf for being impudent. I did not make any friends today, that's true but I doubt that there will be any immediate consequences to worry about." Thorin stated calmly with a shrug of his shoulder. "Also, it's not like I drew my sword on them and slammed it into the table. The only clan likely to give him any trouble over my display are the Ironfists, the others will likely have forgotten about it in a day or two."

"It is not like they do not give him enough trouble as it is." Frerin commented. Thorin could see his brother's shoulders relax slowly.

"True." Thorin agreed. There was a short stretch of silence.

"Well, actually, the whole thing was quiet hilarious." Frerin said, unable to hide his grin any longer. Thorin looked at him with an exasperation that only an older sibling could summon. “Enlighten me, brother. What, exactly, is there that you would find hilarious about this?”

"Well, for one; I have never seen those stiff clan leaders look more flabbergasted as when father dragged you out of the tent." Frerin said between snickers. "Did you see the Heptar's expression? I think if his mouth had fallen open any wider, a troll could have made himself comfortable in there." That did it. The mental image of the always glaring clan head with a mouth full of troll was to much for even Thorin's composure. A smirk appeared on his lips which quickly morphed into all out laughter, joining Frerin who was already shaking. His brother's loud and easy laughter as a balm to his troubled mind. He had forgotten how easily Frerin had always managed to make his worries seem like specks of dust in the wind, rather that mountain tall boulders crushing him down. He had felt it keenly after the battle of Azanulbizar, as his reason for cheer had died along with Frerin.

Frerin bumped their shoulders together as the two of them continued snickering. They kept them touching as they slowly calmed down from their laughing fit. When Frerin made to pull away, a pained yelp left his mouth. At the same time, Thorin felt a harsh tuck on his braids that he could feel all the way to his roots. A quick glance sideways told him what had happened. One strand of Frerin's hair had managed to get entangled in one of Thorin's beads. Thorin sighed. Frerin's hair getting entangled in something or another was sadly a more regular occurrence than one should think possible.

"When was the last time you combed this mess?" He asked as he carefully untangled Frerin's hair from his bead. Thorin knew that he would not like the answer when he saw his brother scrunch up his nose as he thought.

"No idea, the day before yesterday?" Frerin answered after a while, though it sounded far more like a question than an answer. If their mother had still been alive Frerin would have be in so much trouble.

"Come on." Thorin tucked at Frerin's arm and led him back towards his tent, much like their father had done with him not to long ago. "I'm going to braid your hair," he said once they had entered.

“You can't be serious.” Frerin stated nonplussed, which Thorin choose to ignore in favour of rummaging through his brothers chest, looking for a comb. "Seriously, Thorin, I am forty-eight years old. I can do my own hair. This is absolutely unnecessary."

"Obviously, it isn't." Thorin said with a snort as he turned and waved his hand in the general direction of the mess his brother called 'hair'. In his hand he triumphantly held a small and plain silver comb.

Frerin grumbled softly in exasperation. He did flop down to the floor in front of his cot however. When Thorin had sat down behind him he began to work silently. He carefully pulled all of his brother’s beads from his hair and then slowly undid the unruly braids. Frerin winced slightly every time the comb got caught in one of the many knots.

"Nadad?" Frerin asked after a while of Thorin silently working the comb through his hair. He grunted in acknowledgement as his fingers were busy untangling one of the more persistent knots. "I'm glad to be in your unit," Frerin confessed.

Thorin's hand stilled in the golden strands. He had not expected Frerin to be glad. He had honestly not had the time to think about what he expected, but Frerin feeling insulted that Thorin did not believe him capable of leading his own unit would have seemed likely. The best he'd have hoped for was annoyance, not the relief he could hear in his brother's voice.

"You thought I'd be mad, didn't you?" Frerin asked dryly. Thorin didn't answer and instead focused on combing through Frerin’s hair. "I would have been mad, had you not told me of your dream and had you not said that you trusted me."

"Also... honestly..." Frerin stopped speaking as if he didn't want to continue. His fingers were playing nervously with sleeve of his tunic. Thorin softly tugged at his hair.

"You know that you can tell me anything, naddith." Thorin said. Now that all the knots had been unravelled, he started braiding the strands above Frerin's left ear.

"Even that I have fallen in love with an elf?" Frerin asked as he craned his neck backwards to look up at his brother and laughed at Thorin's pained expression. Frerin's words brought forth something he would rather not think about. He had avoided the topic successfully for far too long start thinking about it now. "Relax, nadad. It was only a joke."

"Hold still, you goof, now I have to rebraid the whole thing," Frerin only laughed when Thorin pushed his head forward. With an eye-roll Thorin restarted the braid. "And yes, you can even tell me something like that."

Frerin took a deep breath but remained silent. Thorin didn't push him. If he pushed now, Frerin would just close off and the topic would never be brought up again. Then he would never get an answer, only more jokes to distract from what was actually going on inside his brother's head.

"How are you not scared?" Frerin asked after a while. This time it was not only Thorin's hand froze. Frerin was afraid of tomorrow’s battle. In the question Frerin had just posed, he had admitted his own fear. Truly, he should have known.

_'..."I...I'm ...sc-a....red." The words left Frerin's lips between more rasping breaths ...'_

Thorin balled his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. He clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together. All to keep the pain at bay that came with the memory.

"Zaglel?" Frerin asked softly. His brother's voice brought Thorin out of his dark memories. The nickname brought forth the smiling face of their little sister. She was the one who had first come up with it. To Dis, they had always been like sun and moon. Whether that was because of their personalities or their respective hair-colours was a question the toddler had left unanswered at the time.

"I am scared." Thorin admitted as he started working on Frerin's second braid.

"Well, you're not acting like it." Frerin pointed out and Thorin snorted.

"Remind me which one of us had a break down this morning? I'm fairly certain it wasn't you." Thorin countered dryly. Frerin stiffened at the mention of it.

"That doesn't count." Thorin couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Yes, it does, Tahel. I am scared. I fear death. I fear losing the battle tomorrow. Most of all, I fear losing you. Why else would I cry on your shoulder and go against our King?" Thorin asked softly as he brushed his fingers through Frerin's hair.

It had always been so much easier to talk about his thoughts with him than it had been with anyone else. Thorin kept his issues close and guarded them as fiercely as a dragon did it's hoard. Only his siblings and later Bilbo had ever managed to get him to open up but out of them all, Frerin was the one who best knew when he could push and when he couldn't.

Now, it seemed, it was time for a little pushing. Frerin's hand closed around Thorin's wrist and squeezed.

"You're not going to lose me, you know? Just as I'm not going to lose you." Frerin said with conviction. A small bittersweet smile hushed over Thorin's features.

"I hope you are right. There is no shame in being afraid. Fear is normal, naddith. It is to be expected before a battle. Especially one as important as what we face tomorrow." Thorin said gently as he put the bead into Frerin's hair.

"That's why I am glad that you are fighting beside me." Frerin said simply. Thorin had to swallow around the lump in his throat but stayed silent.

"There. All done." Thorin said and hoped that Frerin would overhear the small hitch in his voice. Frerin craned his neck back so that he could look into Thorin's face.

"One day you're going to tell me what is really going on." He said solemnly. Thorin knew Frerin had noticed that something was off. His little brother knew him too well not to notice.

"One day, I will. But that day is not today." Thorin promised with a small strained smile.

"I will hold you to that." Frerin warned with a small smirk that did not hide his worry for Thorin.

"I know, Tahel." Thorin answered as he patted Frerin's shoulder, since he could not ruffle through his brother’s hair without destroying his work.

A grumbling sound resounded through the tent and Thorin looked at his stomach in surprise. He suddenly realized that he would have to _eat_ again. This whole 'being alive' business was more bothersome then he remembered. Frerin outright laughed at Thorin's disbelieving expression.

"It seems to me that someone is craving a late breakfast." Frerin said with a broad grin. As if on cue Frerin's own stomach grumbled.

"Well, it appears that that someone isn't alone in his cravings." Thorin answered with a small smirk. "Come on, then. Let's go. There should be some food left over in one of the tents somewhere. We will get a quick breakfast and then I need to talk to Fundin."

oOo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Translations
> 
> Abanjabel - Stonehead  
> Adad - Father  
> Ibrizinlêkh - sunshine  
> Nadad - brother  
> Naddith - little brother  
> Tahel - laugh of all laughs  
> Zaglel - Moon of all moons
> 
> Characters age in human years: (Conversion rates to be found at the end of chapter 1)
> 
> Thorin (current physical age) (53) 12 1/2  
> Frerin (48) 11 3/4  
> Thrain (155) 37 1/2


	3. Azanulbizar I

 

Azanulbizar I

  


 

While his brother was busy going over possible battle strategies with Fundin, Frerin watched him with a thoughtful frown. Thorin had been acting odd since the morning. Very odd. From from the overt displays of affection he had been bestowing on Frerin, up to his demands to speak with Fundin at the dwarf's earliest convenience, none of Thorin's actions seemed to make any sort of sense. That aside, what happened between his brother and their father just hours earlier was something Frerin still didn't know what to think about.

First, there was Thorin's obvious panic at whatever dream he'd had. Then there was the fact that he had not only stormed the council's tent and stood up to their father, no. What was the most surprising and confusing fact about the whole debacle was that _it had worked._ The King was a fair dwarf and kind when he could allow himself to be, but he was also strict and did not take well to disrespect.

Which was another thing Frerin had thought his brother was incapable of. Thorin not only respected their father, he idolized him. He never raised his voice against their father, not once since Frerin could remember. Except now he had. It unsettled Frerin nearly as much as his brothers tears.

He never wanted to see Thorin cry again. It unsettled him. His brother was not meant to cry. No tears were supposed to mar his face. It had been painful for Frerin to feel his brother tremble with nearly silent sobs. It made him wonder if Thorin had cried silently before. Hidden in some abandoned room, far away from any comfort his siblings might be able to offer as he broke down silently. It hurt.

"Frerin?" Thorin's voice brought him out of his dark thoughts. Dark blue eyes were looking at him in question. Another thing that had changed. The underlying pain and guilt he could see in his brothers eyes were new and Frerin did not like it one bit.

"Were you even listening?" Thorin asked with an amused quirk of his lips. Fundin also looked at him with an arched eyebrow and Frerin winced slightly. He had not heard a single thing of what had been discussed.

"Ehm .... no?" At his words Thorin rolled with his eyes and Fundin snorted slightly.

"Mahal help us, if ever you sit on the throne." Fundin commented. Frerin sent him a dark look.

"Thorin will sit on the throne, not me." Frerin answered calmly. His brother would be king and nobody else. He was the one who deserved to sit on the throne once their father passed. Frerin was not made to be king and he no intention of being one. He was not like Thorin, who had exuded an aura of aristocratic severity ever since he had learned to talk in full sentences. With his confidence and his ability to make anybody listen to him, whether they be rich or poor, his brother would be a good king. Frerin hated the reminder that, should Thorin for some reason become unavailable, he would be expected to rule. Certainly not on the day before the grand battle. Fundin himself seemed to have noticed his misstep and raised his hands in a gesture of piece.

"Anyway, now that a certain brother of mine is listening, let us continue. Our unit will be part of the northern flank?" Thorin asked as turned his gaze to Fundin, before Frerin could open his mouth to say anything more.

"King Thrain had intended to send your unit to the North and Prince Frerin's to the South,” Fundin answered. He seemed grateful for the distraction. “But since you've managed to throw any plans he might have had regarding the positioning of you two, I could not say. My best guess is that he will put you on the northern side, since it is weaker and in more need of support until Nain's men arrive," Fundin continued with a small shrug of his shoulders.

"Iron hill dwarrows, always arriving at the last moment to save the day." Thorin commented with a small smirk. Frerin sent him a confused look and his brother just shook his head. He really didn't like it when Thorin kept secrets from him. It felt wrong. Thorin used to tell him nearly everything. The only thing he had never really talked to him about was Erebor. Frerin had his own dark memories of the day Smaug came and so did his brother. They had felt no need to burden the other with what they had experienced on top of that.

"Since my father will most likely be busy for the rest of the day, I will have to assume that we will be with the northern flank. It is the most logical choice." Thorin said as he moved the figures on the map. As he looked at the map Frerin noted the tall bulky stones that Thorin had put behind the enemies centre line. He looked at them confused for a moment, before a suspicion rose in his mind.

"Nadad, are those supposed to be trolls?" Frerin asked in a horrified whisper. He had expected to fight against Orcs and Goblins but not against trolls. Thorin's grim expression was his answer even before his brother nodded.

"What do you mean, trolls?" Fundin asked his voice tight. It appeared Fundin had also not known about the trolls.

"There will be trolls." Thorin remarked darkly. "They work in the mines for the orcs. I do not know how many there are but if the clouds continue to hide the sun we can expect them on the battlefield."

"How do you know about this?" Fundin asked as his eyes raked over the map.

"My father knows of my sources that is all I will say on the matter. I am sorry I could not say anything before." Thorin said as he looked straight into Fundin's eyes. Let him think that Thorin was training as spy-master, so long as it would have the advisor believe him.

"The king needs to know this." Fundin said and was already turning to leave when Thorin's arm shot out and grabbed him by the elbow.

"Wait, Fundin. There is more." Thorin stated calmly. His eyes were sharp and focused. Another curse left Fundin's lips and Frerin was suddenly very glad that Dís was not anywhere near this thrice cursed valley.

"Tell me, we do not have all day." Fundin said gruffly as he turned back towards the map.

"Those orcs will not blindly attack us with no plan or formation. Azog is too smart for that and we have given him far too much time to prepare." Slowly Thorin moved the figures around on the map. "It's likely they will station most of their foot soldiers on the flanks. Their centre in comparison will appear weaker, which is a trap. Behind them more troops will be waiting, among them the trolls." Thorin said as he laid the stones that symbolize the trolls behind the enemies centre line.

"Our father will be fighting at the front lines there." Frerin said with wide eyes. Thorin nodded.

"He will be but Azog will not." Thorin said too calmly for what he was saying. "Azog would not put himself in such an obvious position. Never forget that Orcs do not know what it means to fight with honour."

"We need to find a way to deal with the trolls." Fundin said darkly as he looked at the map.

"Yes, we do. We also need to strengthen our centre line of defence if they will have to take on trolls. I doubt that we can wait for the sun to shine upon them and turn them to stone and we don't have a wizard on our side to part the cloud for us.”

"Do you think that they will pull any other nasty surprises?" Fundin asked grimly. Frerin noted how Thorin's hand clenched around the pommel of his sword.

"Orcs tend to poison their weapons, but that hardly counts as a surprise." Thorin said with a look of disdain etched across his features. The look was mirrored by both Frerin and Fundin. Poisoning your opponent was a dishonourable act and therefore even the idea of poisoned weaponry filled any true dwarf with disgust. Thorin could not help but admit that the practice was terribly efficient, though.

"The healers will most likely know, but it can't hurt to remind them. Anything else?" Fundin asked Thorin, who shook his head.

“That should be all.“ Thorin said softly. Fundin watched him for a moment before nodding and leaving the tent.

"Frerin, tell me, how accurate are you with your bow and arrow?" Thorin asked as he absent-mindedly as his hands played with the white figure of Azog.

"I'm decent enough at hitting what I'm aiming for, but you know that. Why are you asking?" Frerin answered. His fingers brushed over the grey feathers of his arrows.

"Do you think you can take out specific targets, if I point them out?" Frerin shrugged. “Probably. Moving targets are harder to aim at, but that hasn't been a problem before.”

He was a very good archer, especially for dwarven standards. Not that many dwarrows liked the bow and arrow. It was too much of an elvish weapon in their eyes, which had earned Frerin a lot of teasing as a child. Though that had reduced when it became obvious that to bully Frerin was to incur the wrath of Thorin. Even young as he had been, an angry Thorin was a force to be reckoned with.

"They will not expect to be attacked by arrows." Thorin added. The reason was obvious, dwarrows had few archers practised enough that they could hit what they were aiming for even if it stood still. "It could be useful if others of our unit are able to shoot an arrow in a straight line."

"I doubt we could train up anyone to be a useful shot by tomorrow, and we will only find out who is joining our unit at the briefing." Frerin said with a frown. He was not looking forward to being the only one in their unit who carried a bow and could actually use it. For one, being the only proficient long range fighter would place him in a unique position. That was never a good thing during a battle. It felt too much like painting a target on himself. It also meat that Thorin would most likely keep him close, if his comment about specific targets was anything to go by, and he would probably never get to even draw his sword. He didn't want to fight only with a bow and arrow, though. There was little glory to be found behind a bowstring. He wanted for his sword to get a taste of orcish blood.

Once more his brother proved his ability to follow Frerin's thoughts as easily as if they were written on his forehead. “Frerin, you are every drom* as much a proud and honourable warrior as everyone else here. Prouder and certainly more honourable that some. There is no shame in fighting with a bow and I would rather you not hinder yourself by fighting with a weapon you have not yet mastered. Especially not when you are as good with that bow as I remember you to be.”

There was a brief silence before Frerin nodded slightly.

"You know, that briefing will be attended by all of the other clan leaders." Frerin said at last. It was an obvious change in topic but Thorin let it slide. He just groaned.

"Don't remind me. They are going stare me down as if I was some kind of weird insect they just scraped of their boot." Thorin rolled his eyes as put the figurines away and folded the map back up.

"You're right. You're lucky that Fundin didn't say anything when you dragged him away." Frerin snickered.

"I think he might have been too stunned to do more than follow me, and I did not _drag_ him anywhere." An amused smirk was playing on Thorin's lips. Together they stepped out of the tent. By then it was already midday, yet the sun was still hidden beneath thick clouds.

"Nope, you kidnapped him." Frerin amended with a smirk.

"I did not kidnap him." Thorin protested as they made their way through the labyrinth that the tents had created. He hadn't, in fact. Their father had ordered Fundin to listen to any information and hear any suggestions that Thorin may have made after their talk had been over. That didn't make teasing Thorin any less amusing though.

"Oh you certainly did, the other's expressions when you kidnapped him were great as well." Frerin added with a small laugh.

"For the last time I did not kidnap Fundin!" Thorin's protest might have been louder than needed. A few of the dwarrows that passed them looked at them strangely. It only made Frerin laugh all the more. Thorin just rolled his eyes.

"I had forgotten just how much of annoyance you could be." Thorin muttered but there was no heat in his words. Only fondness.

"Me, an annoyance? You wound me, nadad." Frerin swung an arm around Thorin's shoulder and grinned broadly. Instead of the retaliation that he had expected Thorin gave him a soft smile. He tapped Frerin's nose once before he continued walking leaving him standing there. Frerin hurried after him, falling into step beside his brother once again. At least, until Thorin stopped all of a sudden.

"Think you can back up your claim of being a decent shot?" Thorin asked with an amused expression. They were standing next to one of the many impromptu training fields. Targets lined the far side while wooden and straw dummies stood just a few paces away, all of which looked rather worse for the wear. It was almost completely deserted. I seemed that most of the dwarrows had the common sense to not completely exhaust themselves the day before battle.

Frerin grinned as he picked up a bow that had been hung over the 'arm' of one of the dummies. He threw it at his brother, who caught it easily.

"Against you? Any day and for the rest of eternity." Frerin answered with a broad grin as he pulled his own bow from his back.

"Oh, you think so?" Thorin answered with an arched eyebrow. "Then you may have to think again."

They smirked at each other and began. Arrows sailed through the cool air while the sun moved unseen behind the clouds. Hours passed by, unnoticed by the pair.

Thorin felt smug as yet another of his arrows hit the centre of the target. It had been him who had taught his nephews how to handle a bow, since Dwalin had shown himself to be a downright terrible marksmen. He had once accidentally snapped a bow in half, and had since sworn off the 'bloody delicate elven toys'. As such, the roll of archery instructor had fallen to Thorin. Fíli had learned to shoot a bow and somehow hit his target rather then himself but Kíli... Kíli had taken to the skill like a bird learning to fly. His nephew had quickly overtaken him, and every other dwarf Thorin had ever known in both skill and enthusiasm for the unusual weapon. No one could beat his nephew when he had a bow in his hand and arrows in his quiver. Not even Frerin could have matched Kíli's skill with the bow. Thorin was pleased to note that Frerin was still better than him, if not by far. Frerin would be more then able to hold his own in the upcoming battle, but Kíli could still have easily beaten both of them. Thorin closed his eyes for a moment and let himself imagine. He could almost hear Kíli's joyous laughter echoing in the halls of Ered Luin, beating both his uncles at the archery range. He would be nothing more than a mere dwarfling, eyes shining with mischievous glee and well deserved pride. A small smile appeared on the prince's lips as he imagined it.

"Did you secretly practice somewhere?!" Frerin complained indignantly from next to him, dragging him from his thoughts.

"I had more years of practice than you." Thorin answered with a grin.

"Very funny, big guy. You're only five years older. It's not that much more." Frerin grumbled as he notched another arrow and released it. It hit the target dead centre, landing right next to Thorin's own arrow. They had been shooting for hours by now. Frerin was leading by only three centre shoots. A few dwarrows were mingling about and watched the princes shoot.

Somebody cleared their throat behind them. Groin stood there, arms crossed and looking at them expectantly. He was the father of Óin and Glóin, and Thorin could easily see the resemblance between him and his not-yet-born sons. Groin's hair was as red as Glóins but just as frizzly and unruly as Óins. There was no ear trumpet in sight at the moment, but Thorin knew that Groin was almost as hard of hearing as Óin was.

"The King has called a meeting. It will be held in the royal tent within the hour to brief all fraction leaders about their purpose and positions during tomorrow’s battle." Groin's rumbling voice called.

"Seems we will have to cut our shooting short." Frerin commented as he pulled the arrows out of the target.

"We shall be there as soon as possible." Thorin said with a nod towards Groin, who turned on his heel and disappeared to where he had come from.

"Ready to be confronted with the clan leaders' disapproval?" Frerin had reappeared by his side, his quiver once again filled with arrows.

"Don't remind me." Thorin groaned. Frerin smiled ruefully while patted his brother’s shoulder.

"Well, let's not keep them waiting." Thorin grumble was accompanied by a pitying glance from Frerin. The walk to the royal tent was silent.

As expected as soon as Thorin stepped into the tent all eyes turned towards him. The disdainful glares of the Ironfists was nothing to Thorin, who had endured far worse in his time. He kept his expression carefully blank as he slipped into a position at the back of the tent. Frerin followed him silently. If anyone notices him standing a little closer to Thorin than usual they didn't commented on it.

Thorin stood still, his posture carefully relaxed and let his eyes drift once over every dwarf present. Firebeards, Ironfists, Broadbeams, Stonefoots, Blacklocks and Stiffbeards. All clan leaders were present. Of course he'd seen them all that morning, but it was only now that he let himself truly appreciate the loyalty they had shown his father by heeding his call. Even the Ironfists, whose feud with the children of Durin would have given them enough reasons to ignore their message and leave them all to die. Yet, they had come and shown themselves to be honourable, even if they were currently trying to glare holes through the heads of all the descendants of Durin in attendance. Inwardly shaking his head, Thorin refocused his attention on his father. He could not afford to let his mind wander when there where important announcements to be heard.

Thrain's voice filled the tent as he explained the plans and tactics for the upcoming battle. Fundin stood a step behind him to his right, as he always had. When their eyes met Fundin inclined his head slightly. Thorin gave a acknowledging nod in return.

There was an uproar when Thrain mentioned the suspected presence of trolls. Last time they had not known that there would be trolls joining the battle. It had cost them many brave warriors. Thorin still remembered the calls from the gates as the trolls descended upon them, crushing the surprised dwarrows and crippling their forces.

Thorin listened carefully to his father's explanations and once the words 'wedge formation' fell, Thorin felt no small amount of relief settle in his bones. The stronger centre would be able to hold out against the trolls and it would make it appear as if they fell for Azogs trap. It was as good a counter strategy as anyone would have been able to come up with in the limited time the council had had since Thorin's not-entirely-honest revelations. Still, arguments rose from the assembled dwarrows. Thorin let the voices wash over him as his mind wandered. Their petty arguments against a tactic that made sense were of no importance to him. His mind was already thinking about what he needed to do this evening. His hand reached for his sword.

The meeting went on into the late hours of the evening as more minor strategic issues were brought up and resolved. Thorin had little to no recollection of what was being discussed. Weapons distribution, water rations, the expected numbers of enemies or even Nain's predicted time of arrival had not featured prominently in his memory and so he forced himself to pay attention until they finally reached his point of interest: The distribution and position of the units.

Thorin perked up when his and Frerin's names fell. He had been almost certain that their father would keep them in the same unit after the talk they had had earlier but hearing it spoken as fact was different. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief and shared a quick glance with his brother. Frerin smiled at him before his gaze turned back towards their father. As Thorin had suspected they were assigned to fight on the northern flank together with the Firebeards and Stonefoots. The southern flank was manned by the Ironfist and Blacklocks. This was where Frerin had fought last time. Thorin still could not understand how their father could have let Frerin anywhere near the vengeful Ironfist.

Their unit would consist of forty dwarrows, all either from the Blue Mountains or former residents of Erebor. After that Thorin tuned out the rest of the distribution. His mind was already running through different scenarios. The fact that they had almost no archers was a distinct disadvantage. He could hardly use Frerin as the only archer. Right about now some of Thranduil's elven archers would have been very helpful, or even just that Legolas boy of his, no matter how annoying those tree-shaggers were. He silently apologized to Yavanna for the insult too her trees.

Just like last time the meeting went on into the late hours of the night. Somebody had brought in candles at one point and the dwarrows' faces were now illuminated by a warm orange glow. Next to Thorin, Frerin was nearly falling asleep while standing.

As soon as the meeting was finished, Thorin bid his brother goodnight and disappeared into the shadows of the tents. Unbeknownst to him, Frerin followed him silently.

Thorin moved from shadow to shadow, careful to let no dwarf see him, guard post or otherwise. When he reached a large tent at the edge of their encampment, he slowed. This was where the army was storing their provisions, completely unnoticed. Silently he knelled behind a cart that was standing next to the tent and waited. He had pulled his sword from its scabbard. His fingers were enclosing the hilt as he peered into the darkness.  
His wait was rewarded when he heard the shuffles of feet on the uneven ground. His fingers clenched around the sword.  
  
The deformed figures stepped out of the darkness in bushes that surrounded most of the camp. Skin eaten by disease. Wide and glazed eyes. Goblins. Thorin took a deep breath as he remembered the goblin's kingdom beneath the misty mountains. The rotting smell in the air. The stench of hundreds of unwashed goblins hanging in the caves. The feeling of the heavy and disgusting body of the goblin king crushing him. Thorin shook his head to get rid of the memories.

The goblins were muttering almost silently to each other. A language which Thorin did not understand, nor ever wanted to hear again. The noises they made sounded more like grunts than words. As silently as their grotesque forms could, they made their way over to the supply tent. Slowly Thorin stood up, still unseen by those that live beneath the misty mountains. Just as the first Goblin was about to walk around the cart, Thorin struck. His blade sinking into the Goblins throat as easily as if he had just cut butter. Blessed be Mahal and the craftsmanship of dwarrows. The sound of the dead body hitting the ground was the only noise heard in the silence of the evening. Before any of the other Goblins could react, Thorin had already whirled around. His blade cut down a second one with a clean cut through his upper body. Now, finally, the remaining goblins began to move. The third one darted forward, the rusty club it used as weapon raised above its head. Thorin side stepped the attack of the rusty weapon easily. His sword pierced the Goblins flimsy armour. Another one dead. Only two remained. His sword cut through the air, the drops of blood that had clung to the blade flying everywhere. He parried the next attack. Thorin kicked the Goblins knee causing him to lose his balance. His sword sung through the air and the head of the goblin fell to the ground, separated from its neck by a clean cut.  
  
Only one more Goblin remained. With a angry roar the goblin threw himself at Thorin. His rusted weapon easily parried by Thorin's blade. With his left hand Thorin pulled out a hidden dagger from beneath his tunic and rammed it into the goblins throat. With a gurgling noise the last goblin ceased all movement.  
With a disgusted expression Thorin withdrew his blades. He cleaned the blood of his sword before sheathing it. The dagger disappeared beneath his tunic once again. He knelled down and looked at the barely armoured Goblins laying dead on the floor. He picked up a deformed, rusty and battered flask that had been fastened on the goblins hip. He uncorked it and took a sniff and recoiled. A sickeningly sweet and bitter smell rose from the opened flask. Thorin was not an expert on the matter but he would bet whatever was in the flasks was poison, made from some kind of plant or berry most likely. The same poison that had caused dwarrows to drop dead all of a sudden when he had lived the first time. He hadn't been certain that they their food had actually been poisoned the first time but now the evidence was right in front of his eyes.  
  
Something rustled in the bushes. Thorin reacted on instinct. The throwing knife was out of his hand and in the air before he had could think. With a small flick of his wrist the projectile sailed into the bushes. A squeak of pain disturbed the silence of the night as another Goblin fell to the ground. The knife embedded in its throat. The Goblin was still breathing. Gurgling sounds emitting from its throat as it fought for air. Thorin walked towards it. He stopped next to the twitching form with his sword drawn. He put the tip of his blade was right over its heart. Slowly the tip sunk into the hard, disease riddled skin until a small drop of blood trailed out.

"Trying to poison Mahal's children, especially with his wife's creation, was a move doomed to failure. I have no pity for you." Thorin said darkly before he thrust his sword downwards. His blade pierced the heart. An ugly sound of agony left the Goblin's throat before it stopped twitching. With a wet squelching noise, Thorin pulled his sword out of the prone body and cleaned it calmly. Then he turned around and walked away, his expression grim as he seethed his sword once more. When he walked back to his and Frerin's shared tent, he passed by the guard post at the front of the supply tent. The two dwarves were deeply engrossed in a game of dice and hadn't heard a thing. Thorin thought to discipline them, but thought better of it.  
Tomorrow the real battle would take place and it would not be as easy as this. There was no need to kill the morale of these two. He would do it later, if they survived to see another week.

  
Tomorrow, dwarven and orcish blood would paint the battlefield in scarlet and there was much yet for him to do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *We will be using neither Imperial nor Metric units for this FF. No Metric because it would not fit with the setting and no Imperial because Imperial units are crazy and make no sense. We are using Dwarvish units (from another universe, and slightly adjusted but they fit better than anything else so there you go.)
> 
> 1 mm 1 Rim  
> 1 cm 1 Drom  
> 1 dm 1 Drumod  
> 1 m 1 Drasch  
> 100 m 1 Dumad  
> 1 km 1 Dorgrosch  
> 25 km 1 Pakasch
> 
>  
> 
> Characters age in human years: (Conversion rates to be found at the end of chapter 1)
> 
> Thorin (current physical age) (53) 12 1/2  
> Frerin (48) 11 3/4  
> Thrain (155) 37 1/2


	4. Azanulbizar II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey! Look who's not dead? We are! This chapter was a pain to write for the both of us though I (Wisperwind) claim most of the blame for it taking so long. No promises on when the next chapter will be up but it will be more plot heavy and less battles so it should be somewhat faster. In any case, enjoy the Battle of Azanulbizar.

Azanulbizar II

 

oOo

 

A steady rain fell from an overcast sky as the dwarves marched towards battle the following morning. The small droplets hit the ground in a gentle drizzle, creating a steady pattering sound. It was by no means a heavy downpour and so it did not slow the march of heavy armoured boots, but the sun was hidden and the day was a dark one. Thorin turned his face skywards. Already his face was wet and he felt cold in his clamy tunic under his armour. He remembered the sun shining upon them near the end of the battle, but he also knew that there was much that could happen until then. The fighting was yet to come, it was coming closer with every marching step of his boots, and it's outcome was uncertain, no matter what memories Thorin may have held.

Thorin and his unit were surrounded by the greatest of dwarven armies to ever be seen on Middle Earth. Thousands upon thousands of dwarves stomped towards a battlefield where the truest victor would be death. Years of living though bloodshed had welded this knowledge deep into Thorin's mind. The deaths of Frerin, Kíli and Fíli had burned it into his very soul.

"Do you think we'll see the sun before we see the trolls?" a voice spoke up next to him.

Thorin startled. He turned to look at Frerin, who walked beside him. Frerin usually so unruly hair was pulled back from his face with tight braids. His sharp features and angular chin were no longer softened by the mane of untamed goldas they had been the day before. His shield was out of his hands and strapped to his back and he wore no helmet. As an archer, his vision was imperative and he had opted for a clear view rather than protection. Thorin hoped the risk would be worth it.

Dressed like this, for battle, Frerin looked older than his years. Thorin felt the weight of his own true age keenly at the realisation. Here he could see a glimpse of the dwarf his brother should have grown up to be. All the wasted potential and a future that had not come to pass. Thorin swallowed once and shook his head, trying to chase of the dark thoughts by concentrating on the conversation at hand.

"I wish for it but I don't think we will. The sun will not shine upon us during the battle." Thorin answered, shaking his head. He shared a look with Frerin. Darkened skies meant they would have to face the trolls in battle. Something which apparently could not be avoided, no matter how much Thorin might wish it.

"Well, at least they're only trolls. Could be worse.” Frerin laughed nervously.

Thorin raised an eyebrow at the tremor in his brother's voice. Thorin knew it wasn't his own life that Frerin was worried about. His brother had more bravery in him than many battle-hardened warriors thrice his age.

"Father will be alright. Do not worry yourself over him, naddith." Thorin tried to reassure Frerin. He gripped his brother's shoulder as they continued marching. Thorin would have lain his arm around his brother if he hadn't been sure that it would cause them to stumble on the muddy, uneven ground. Frerin leaned into the contact sightly before pulling away.

"He is not the only one I'm worried about," Frerin muttered under his breath.

Thorin frowned. “Do not worry yourself over me either. No foe has managed to best me so far and I do not intend for it to change this day. We are here together and will look out for one another. So long as that is true, we will live to see tomorrow.” Thorin knew he was lying through his teeth. No one could know what the battle would bring. Not even he, with all his memories, could be sure of what was to come, but in that moment Frerin needed reassurance more then he needed truth.

They marched on. The rhythmic sound of heavy dwarven footfalls mixed with the droning sound of the heavy, metal war drums. The sharp sound of a horn brought the procession to a stop. They had reached their destination. The horn resounded a second time, signalling for everyone to get into their assigned positions. Next to Thorin, Frerin was strung as taunt as his own bowstring. Thorin knew that no amount of optimism would lessen the apprehension his brother felt. He simply put a reassuring hand between Frerin's shoulder blades.

"We will be fine, Tahel." Thorin murmured into his brothers ear. Frerin glanced at him once. A small brief smile touching his lips. “We will win and we will live. ” His words were no promise, for they both knew; no one could promise such things. It was a resolve, Thorin's vow to do anything and everything in his power to let them both see another sunrise.

Thorin stepped forward and turned to lead his men. He bellowed an order and at the sound of his voice his unit started to march towards their assigned position. The King had positioned them as part of the northern flank, near Kheled-zâram, the lake of stars. In the common tongue it was called Mirror-mere.

Thorin took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He would not let Frerin die. Frerin would live. He would not lose his little brother. Today was not the day he remembered. This battle would be different. He would not have to clean his brother's blood off his hands this time. Thorin let out the breath was holding and opened his eyes.

The valley of Azanulbizar stretched out in front of him. The entrance to Khazad-dûm could be seen in the distance. The great door stood open. Before them a black mass of orcs and goblins had spilled on grass and darkened the field like a living, writhing shadow.

Thorin narrowed his eyes and let them sweep over the black army, looking for a sign of the white skin that distinguished Azog from the others. There was no sign of The Defiler. Yet.

Thorin drew his sword. Then he turned his eyes back to the earth and muttered a short prayer to both Mahal and Yavanna. The first he asked for strength and the second for protection.

"Ready your weapons!” The command fell from his lips easily and his men reacted at once.

Frerin closed his eyes and took a deep breath as Thorin's voice washed over him.

When Frerin opened his eyes again the fear had disappeared from his face. His expression had hardened, only determination showing in the set of his shoulders and the depth of his frown. His right hand reached up to clasp the back of Thorin's head as his left came to rest on his shoulder. He pushed their foreheads together.

"Mâ sakhumâ ib-baknu hikulu. Mahganatsu e?" Frerin asked solemnly. The Khuzdul words rolling of his tongue like an oath. An oath that both Frerin and Thorin would try to keep.

"Mahagniti." Thorin answered. A smile flickered briefly over Frerin's features. Frerin released his brother and stepped back, his gaze returning to the enemies.

"Hethin, send for Ganar, Sórin and Ravnur, please." Thorin commanded one of the dwarves closest to him. The dwarf nodded once and disappeared. He returned shortly and with him were three others. They bowed deeply before straightening into parade rest and looking expectantly at Thorin, their commander. All of the newcomers had long-bows slung over their shoulders. These were the only dwarves aside from Frerin who Thorin trusted with a bow. Including his brother, he had only four archers at his disposal who could hit a moving target at moderate distance. Other dwarves could shot arrows also, but none of them were fast or practised enough for the task he had in mind.

"I am not going to lie to you. The task I am about to give you will be one of the most difficult. You can see the orcs with the white marking across their faces?" Thorin asked as he pointed at a handful of so marked enemies. "They are leaders of smaller packs within their army."

“We are supposed to take them out, aren't we?" Frerin asked from beside him. His bow was already in his hand and arrow in his other. His keen eyes raking over their foes, locating the ones he needed to shoot down. Thorin nodded.

"As quickly as possible." Thorin added. Frerin had already notched an arrow. His bowstring drawn back as his gaze locked onto a target.

"Patience, naddith." Thorin exclaimed as he laid a hand on Frerin's arm to stop him from shooting.

"We cannot attack before King Thrain's signal. " Thorin elaborated at the sight of Frerin's raised eyebrow. "Memorize their positions and attack them as soon as they start moving. If you can down them all before the army reaches us they will be far less organized, giving us a great advantage"

The four archers nodded. All of them had an arrow notched, ready to shoot at any given moment. Their expressions were tight and drawn from concentration.

That moment the entire army fell silent as the voice of the King resounded loud and clear across the field.

“Children of Mahal, on this day we stand united to reclaim what is ours. My fellow Stoneborn, I am proud of you. I know that you have been wielding against the enemy two potent weapons: Dwarven bravery and honour. Stronger than any force of darkness, these, your weapons are of untold and terrible power. Stronger than a thousand sheets of steel, with them you are invincible. Stand, I bid you! For this land is ours, and middle-earth shall remember!”

Thorin held his breath. In his grieve and shock the day before it had been easy to forget that Thrain, while his father, was also King. A long time ago, Thorin had admired the man for his leadership, his fair rulings and his clear head even under duress. He had forgotten how his father's words could sway the hearts of his people, and Thorin found that even after so long, he was no exception.

Around him the warriors drew their weapons. A avalanche of the sound rose from the dwarven ranks as they rattled their shields and stomped their feet. The sound was deafening but one shout from Thrain silence fell once more. The King shattered the tension with a single word.

" _Attack_!"

A battle cry spewed from every dwarven throat. Heavy, armour-clad boots hit the earth as the army charged forward. Battle-axes, war-hammers and swords were raised as the greatest dwarven force ever to be seen on middle-earth charged into battle.

Thorin's unit was one of the few that didn't move immediately. They stood their ground, waiting until the orcs came closer. If they rushed into battle now, they could obscure their archers sight. No one wanted to be felled by a kinsman's arrow. With the low snapping sound of a bowstring being released, Frerin fired another arrow beside him.

A horn blasted from the enemies lines. Thorin reacted instantly. " _Arrows! Get your shields!_ " Thorin shouted and raised his own shield. He pulled Frerin closer to him, so as to cover his brother as well. With heavy thuds the black feathered projectiles hit the wood, and the ground around them. Frerin did not stop shooting. He relied on Thorin to shield him from the orcish salvo while he downed one orc after another. Then the bulk of the their army clashed with the dark forces and drew them into a in close range battle.

"Five." Frerin muttered under his breath and notched the sixth arrow. Shouts and heavy footfalls grew louder as their foes kept rushing towards them. Even with the archers taking out the pack leaders as quickly as possible, the orcs couldn't be stopped. When they where but a hard stone-toss away, Thorin had grabbed Frerin by the arm and shook his head. Frerin shouldered his bow immediately. He drew his sword instead and grabbed his shield. Thorin nodded at him once before he let out a loud battle cry. Then the enemies were upon them.

 

oOo

 

Another orc fell to Frerin's blade. There were still dark beasts spilling out of the gates of Moria. He noticed a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and whirled around. His sword arched in a blur of dark silver and the severed head of his enemy fell to the ground. Frerin was only able to take a small breath before another rusted blade swung towards his throat. He parried the attack, but before he could make another move to kill the orc, it collapsed into the mud with a gurgling sound, a bleeding hole in its ribcage. Thorin had pierced the orc's heart from behind. His brother looked at him for no more than a second before his sword sang through the air again, severing a goblin arm at the joint. This one had made the mistake of thinking it could sneak up on Thorin.

Frerin parried another attack before whirling around and embedding one of his many hidden daggers in the orc's throat, something which he had seen Thorin do just last night. His brother's fighting style had changed quite literally overnight and Frerin had no idea how or why. After he only barely side-stepped an iron club that could have taken off his head, he forced himself out of his confusion. This was not the time nor the place to contemplate his brothers sudden change in attitude.

Thorin was fighting ahead of him. His sword was blackened with the blood of creatures, his face splattered with it. He cut through any enemy that dared step into the reach of his sword.

Shouts echoed across the battlefield. Startled Frerin looked up from where he had cleaved a fallen goblins head off. What he saw made his blood freeze. The cave-trolls were storming the battlefield. Thorin had warned them about them but it was an altogether different thing to see them enter the fray. They were tall and ugly, each with grey, lumpy skin and their own little goblins on their shoulder. The threat had not felt real before. Now there was no more denying the danger they were in.

"Frerin, duck!" Frerin didn't even have to think. He followed Thorin's command and found himself on the ground before he had time to question. He heard the distinct hiss of a blade pass over his head. He got back on his feet and crouched low before quickly rolling forward. He whirled around and used his momentum to thrust his sword into his attackers chest in one smooth upward motion. He jumped back onto his feet and could barely blink before another orc was on him.

Frerin lost all concept of time. Endless killing and nearly being killed was the only thing he knew. As soon as he had cut one down another orc took its place. They just kept on coming. The small skirmishes Frerin had taken part in during patrol duty were nothing compared to this battle. Death was all around him. Cries of pain from orc, goblin and dwarf alike filled the air along with the sound of weapons clashing and splintering shields. Adrenalin was pumping through his veins. An orcish blade skimmed the skin of his cheek. Blood trickled down and dyed his beard red. The orc lost its hand in turn.

It was chaos. Half of their unit was already lost, either to death, injury or simply engaged in fights out of sight. Orcs and goblins were swarming them from all sides, an end nowhere in sight. Frerin stumbled and crashed onto the ground. He rolled to the side barely avoiding the mace of yet another orc.

"Frerin!" Thorin's cry pulled him out of his stupor. He managed to raise his shield just in time to stop a club from crushing his throat. He felt the force of the blow travel through his arm in tiny vibrations, all the way up to his shoulder. He clenched his teeth when a second blow connected with his shield. The third blow never came.

"Get up!" Thorin called. Frerin lowered the shield and got back onto his feet as quickly as he was able to. His brother was a fearsome sight, coated in the blood of their enemies and with a ferocious snarl on his face. To Frerin, the sight only brought relief.

He breathed once, then took out a goblin that had been trying to sneak up on Thorin with one of his throwing knifes. It crumbled and fell into the mud, the handle sticking out from its eye. Thorin had no time to be thankful before another foe was on them. Frerin followed him without question.

 

oOo

 

In a different part of the Valley, King Thrain was swinging his battle axe with an awe inspiring ferocity. Here, in the haze of battle where no one would see, he could admit to himself what he had know from the day he sent out messengers to the other clans. This was a desperate effort. Nothing more than a half-doomed attempt to reclaim a homeland that no dwarf had set foot in living memory. But his people where desperate, homeless and starving on the roads. There had been no other choice. Now all he could do was fight this war that had begun centuries before his birth and hope that they would win at least a small patch of space for themselves.

 

oOo

 

Endless. It was endless. No matter how many he cut down it never stopped. Thorin’s body was already littered with bruises. His right shoulder gave a painful twinge whenever he moved his arm to cut down another attacker. His left arm hurt from the many blades and clubs he had deflected.The shield he had been using was already splintering. Another few well placed blows and it will break. He was bleedingfrom a gash on his neck and another above his eyebrow. They stung but it was not life threatening nor something he could not handle. He was more worried about Frerin. A blade had managed to pierce through his armour on the right side. His brother's expression did not betray an ounce of the pain he might have been feeling. It didn't seem to hinder him but that was exactly what had Thorin worried. He couldn't see how much Frerin was bleeding under that armour and if he passed out in the middle of battle he'd be a dead dwarf.

Half a second later though Thorin cursed his distraction in as he was talked to the ground by a group of undergrown goblins. He lost his sword and his shield cracked in the fall, falling to pieces uselessly. He crawled backwards on his hands, trying to reach for his sword but there was rain and blood in his eyes and he couldn't see. The goblins were small but vicious and less stupid than Thorin would have hoped. With sharp claws and sharper teeth they reached for the weak spots in his armour. Links and joint where plate met plate and his flesh was only covered by the cloth of his undershirt.

When the needlepoint edge of a claw dug itself into the back of his knee he let out a shout but his hand had finally come to rest on something useful.

The familiar weight of the oak in his hand did nothing to calm Thorin's thundering heartbeat. He swung the old, gnarly piece of wood in and hit two of the goblins in one swipe. They hissed and jumped backwards, crouching low and ready to attack. Thorin wiped his eyes clean and chanced a quick glance around himself. He spottet his sword a few steps to his left. With a well timed roll he dogged around the next attack and came up again, this time with his sword back in his hand. After that, dispatching the goblins didn't take long.

Thorin panted heavily as he looked down his arm at the branch he was still clutching tightly. It seemed like he was doomed to be Oakenshield no matter which timeline he lived in.

He spared a quick glance to his right where Frerin was fighting his own battle. His expression was grim and withdrawn as he fought. He had a gash on his cheek that was still was bleeding and he looked almost as exhausted as Thorin felt but at least he was still upright. Thorin just hoped he would stay that way.

 

oOo

 

It was a difficult thing, to tire out a dwarf. They had been forged first by Mahal, when elves and men were still nothing but a plan in the mind of the great Manwe and the Valar of Teachingand Knowledge was lonely without students. So Mahal had devised a people for himself, to teach his great arts and sciences to and to chase the loneliness from his heart. They were made hardy and unyielding, forged from earth and meant to endure, for the shadow of Morgoth still clung to the world in those days. And though Manwe had given them true life and free thoughts, apart from the Smith of the Valar, they dwarves were still exactly as they had been made by Mahal in those dark days; Strong and proud and near-unbreakable.

 

oOo

 

Thrain was tired. The day was dragging on and there seemed to be no end to the fighting. He was more than tired, and it was not just the fight that sapping his energy. He was a dwarf of the line of Durin, he was born with a blade in his hand. It was not battle fatigue that plagued him. No what was eating at him was a different kind of exhaustion.

In the span of a few short years Train Son of Thror had lost first his wife, then his kingdom, his wealth, his home, his father and now he faced the possibility of losing one or both of his sons as well. He knew, had known from the beginning, that this battle was not something they were likely to survive. He loved and trusted his sons but he was not blind. Both of them were children, but they had been desperate. Leaving them behind like their sister had been simply impossible.

He swung his axe in a wide arch, clearing the area around him and affording him a few seconds to catch his breath. He had lost sight of Fundin a while ago, but he knew his old friend and adviser was not one to be underestimated and would not appreciate any undue concern from his king. Hefting his axe once more Thrain's thought stayed with his children

The talk he had had with his eldest son the day before had done nothing to appease his worry. No, in fact, it had only worsened it, for now he was worried about Thorin for an entirely different reason as well. It was incredibly rare, for a dwarf to receive a blessing from Irmo the Valar of Dreams. Thrain would have doubted his son's claim but the desperation Thorn had shown had been unquestionably real. Something had happened to his son, Thrain knew but there was nothing to be done about it then. Thrain would need to have a long and throughout conversation with his heir in the morning, should the both life to see it. For now all Thrain could do was swing his axe with as much force as he could muster and pray that he had not send both of his sons to their deaths.

 

oOo

 

In a different part of the valley, a new horn cut trough the haze. The deep, almost deafening sound vibrated through Thorin's bones and had sighing in relief. This was the most welcome sound Thorin had heard all day.

The horn of the iron hill dwarves.

Dáin, under the leadership of his father Nain, had finally arrived. With them came their army and a mighty roar shook the plains before the gates of Moria, as they rushed to join the battle. I didn't take long for Durin's to be reunited.

"Afternoon, nephew!" Nain's booming voice shouted as he joined the fray. Thorin nodded his head in greeting even as his sword took another life.

"Afternoon cousin!" Dáin's bellow followed after Nain's. He grinned and laughed loudly, throwing himself into battle with all the force of a charging oliphaunt.

Thorin's eyebrow twitched slightly in annoyance. His cousin's loud booming voice and overenthusiastic mannerism had always been annoying. Thorin liked his kin but spending too much time with them had always left him with a brain rattling headache.

Dáin threw himself into the battle. He was only thirty-two, not even considered battle ready.

At least him and Frerin were over the age of forty, the age upon which dwarves would usually be allowed to fight in true battles, even if they were still considered children. Thorin caught another glimpse of his cousin with his axe raised high, laughing as if this was all a great game. By the Valar, Dáin was truly no more than a child. Just like Balin, who Thorin had not even seen yet but of whom he knew that he was fighting somewhere alongside his father. Balin was not much older than Dáin. He was still a long ways away from being the wise friend Thorin remembered. He gritted his teeth swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

His contemplation was cut short bythe tip of a blade that barely missed his cheek. With a twist of his wrist he had already drilled his sword into the orcish chest. Another orc that had tried to attack him from behind was felled by Frerin's blade.

"Is this the scum that killed my uncle, the king?!" Nain bellowed from somewhere. The battleaxe in his left hand was embedded in an orcs skull, the one in his right was aimed at an orc in the distance. A hiss left Thorin through his gritted teeth as he caught sight of the the white orcs for the first time that day. Azog was still just as pale and ugly, wiping out dwarves with his deadly mace left and right. Thorin narrowed his eyes, hands tightening around the sword and wood. This time he would make sure The Defiler was dead.

"He beheaded our grandfather." Frerin said with a voice that was devoid of all emotions. He, too, seemed to share Thorin’s sentiment. Neither of the siblings had been especially fond of King Thror but this was as more than just a matter of revenge. The white orc couldn't be allowed to live.

Nain grunted once before he raised his axe high an bellowed. “For Honour! For the King!”

Thorin might have scoffed had he had the breath to spare. There was little honour to be gained by slaying monsters. This was nothing more than a bloody battlefield where they killed their enemies because they didn't want to die themselves. True honour lay not in the forced grandeur of circumstance but in the small kindnesses of everyday people. He had learned that lesson by watching Hobbits.

But the great deeds needed doing as well.

He followed Nain as he threw himself into the fight to reach Azog and seek revenge for their king, for his uncle, for Frerin's and Thorin's grandfather.

With an angry shriek, that might have been meant as a battle cry, Nain charged at Azog. Before Thorin could follow after him, a new mass of orcs and goblins blocked his path. He tried to dodge around them, to reach Nain and assist him in his against the white orc but it was no use. There was nothing he could do but trust that his family could handle themselves.

He should have known better.

"ADAD!!!!" Dáin's painfilled cry pierced the air as he watch his father crumble, slashed open by the black scimitar in Azog's left hand. Azog's face was twisted into a horribly triumphant grin. Madness shone in his eyes and pride to have felled another one of the line of Durin. Thorin whirled around and barley managed to grab Dáin by the neck of his armour. He pulled hard to move his cousin out of the path of Azog’s mace just in time. The deadly weapon hissed passed them, only a hairsbreadth away from their bodies.

"Together" Thorin shouted at Dáin. Dein nodded jerkily, tears and hatred gleaming in his eyes. He adjusted his grip on the handle of his axe, and readied himself for the next attack.

With a roar the two of them rushed towards Azog. The white orc snarled and swung his mace again. Thorin ducked. He felt the air move over him as the mace gazed his hair. He heard the sickening crunch as it hit someone else. Thorin glance towards the source of the sound but it had been nothing more than another orc. He was almost within sword reach of Azog. Dáin roared from behind him and rushed forwards. Thorin cursed his hot-head of a cousin,something he found himself doing more and more often. For a third time Azog swung his mace. Thorin leaned backwards to avoid it and Dáin barely managed to duck out of the way. In the time it took for Azog to raise his arm for another swing, Thorin took his chance. He rushed forwards, sword raised to strike at his enemy’s throat. With a curse in black speech Azog blocked Thorin's attack with his scimitar. He pushed Thorin backwards before once again raising his weapon to strike. Wood splinters burst into the air as black steel hit old wood. A growl rose from Azog and his face twisted into an angry grimace. His yellow eyes stared at Thorin, hungry for death and full of madness. He pulled, but the blade remained stuck in the wood. Thorin, in an attempt to disarm his foe, twisted his arm holding the oak until Azog could no longer hold onto the blade. Thorin grinned and threw both the wood and the scimitar embedded in it as far as his strength would allow. He grinned at the disbelieving shriek that accompanied Azog’s loss of his weapon.

A choked of sound tore Thorin’s gaze away from TheDefiler. His blood ran cold. Frerin.

His little brother lay on the ground, hardly visible through the tumult around them, shield and sword both out of his reach. His struggles to get back onto his feet were feeble at best. Was this the bloodloss Thorin had been fearing earlier? Frerin was bleedingfrom several cuts, scrapes and tears but the most worrying one was still the stab wound in his side and the newly added gash on his forehead that bled freely down his face. His expression was dazed and slightly unfocused and a shadow was looming over them, moving fast and shaking the earth with each step. A troll. A bloody cave-troll was stomping towards Frerin. Thorin bit down on a desperate yelp. The trolls were supposed to stay near the gates, not wander off all this way where they could try and lay hand on Thorin’s brother.

When he saw Frerin in danger, Thorin reacted on instinct. There was nothing in his mind but a constant chant of Frerin's name and ‘not this time’. He dodged to the side and thanking the Valar for Dain and the distraction he provided by rushing towards Azog head on with his axe held high. He swept past his foe with his sword raised, swinging it with all his strength as he passed. It caught on something but Thorin didn't look back to see which part of the orc he'd hit. Hopefully one vital or damaging enough for the creature to die.

As hespun forward, his blade's edge sunk deep into sickly, white flesh cutting deeper and deeper into Azog's arm. With one last pull he ripped his sword free and ran. He didn't see the pale and bloody hand falling into the mud, cleanly severed.

He ignored Azog's angry howls of pain and the curses he heaved upon his name. His sole focus ley on Frerin, his little brother who was still struggling to get back onto his feet.

The troll was steadily stomping towards Frerin. A mad gaggling goblinsitting on its shoulder and a thick iron chain slung around it’s neck which the small creatures pulled and janked to lead the troll into different directions. The chain was so long that it hung down the trolls back nearly reaching the ground.

Thorin roared angrily as he ran towards the beast, ducking under black weapons as he ran.

Behind him he could hear Dáin's roar of triumph. Azog must have been defeated. Thorin didn't care. It wasn't important, not then. Frerin was all that mattered.

He pulled the last throwing knife he had left and prayed that his aim would not fail him. With a quiet whirling sound that got drowned out by the noises of battlesurrounding them the knife flew through the air. It hit the troll handling goblin in its bareshoulder. With a pained shriek it let go of the chain, lost its balance and rolled down the troll’s chest. The goblin landed with a squelch and in the next moment it's body was crushed under the foot of the creature it had just been riding. Thorin dashed behind the troll and grabbed onto the now free dangling iron chain. It was a split second decision and had he had time enough to think, Thorin would have known it would be a useless endeavour.

As it was, he tugged on the chain with all of his might. That definitely caught the Troll's attention. It let out a loud howl of pain and as it turned around, Thorin saw that the inside of it's collar was laced with sharp iron spikes. Disgusted, but not one to spur an opportunity, Thorin yanked the chain even harder, causing dark blood to pour out from under the troll’s collar.

With an enraged roar the beast turned and its hammer like weapon came rushing towards him. Thorin barely managed to avoid the strike letting go of the chain as he jumped out of its path. As he ducked he could see through the trolls legs. Sórin had abandoned whatever orc he had been fighting with and was now standing protectively next to Frerin, who had managed to regain his balance and was standing once more.

Thorin's relief was short lived however when the troll took another swipe at him. This time Thorin wasn't fast enough. The hit threw him several dozen feet,he landed on stony ground and the impact knocked the air out of his lungs. Pain unlike anything this body had felt before raced through him and this was when he found out that pain tolerance was more than just a question of mentality. His right arm felt as if he had just stuck it into a roaring fire, like something in there was bleeding and compressing and his bones where splintering under the pressure. His head was throbbing and his vision blurred from where his head had hit the ground.

"THORIN!"

Was that Dwalin’s voice? No, no that wasn't it… Couldn't be Dwalin was _(long dead, a child, not here)_ Frerin? But Frerin had been… Where was..?

Thorin’s mind was hazy and slow to process. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. His eyes looked up to the grey sky. Grey. Everything was… No. There was blue there, and light. The clouds were slowly breaking apart. He could make out clear, open sky for the first time that day.

"THORIN!"

Yes, that was Frerin’s voice. Why did he sound so paniced? Thorin’s head was still throbbing and his thoughts no clearer than the mud he was lying in. But Frerin had called to him and the had been terror in his voice. Terror that wasn't supposed to be there. He turned his head, which did nothing for his headache but he could see his brother now.

Dáin was holding the young Prince back by the chest, arms straining against Frerin who fought against his hold. Frerin's face was a picture of pure horror as he struggled

Thorin was glad for Dáin's actions. Maybe he'd been unfair in thinking of him as annoying.

Thorin could see a humongous grey mass thundering towards him. ‘Right. The troll’, his sluggish mind provided after a moment. He tried to get back to his feetbut his arm flared with white hot pain and couldn't hold him when he shifted his weight on it. He crumbled back onto the ground holding his arm,gasping and gritting his teeth against the pain. He could not stand up with his arm in this condition, let alone fight.

The earth shaking steps stopped. It was too late. A dark shadow loomed over Thorin, blocking out the daylight. The troll raised it's leg ready to crush him, as it had done to the goblin earlier.

"THORIN!"

As the foot came rushing towards him Thorin braced himself. He rolled to the side as quickly as he managed. He still screamed at the pain that flared up in his arm as he rolled over it. He was sure it was broken. The movement however did not only causehis mutilation arm to to throb it also made his stomach roll with nausea and his head still felt as if filled with wool. Still, he used the momentum of the roll to get into an unsteady crouching position.

He had lost his sword when the troll threw him across the field. Now he was defenceless with a broken arm and what was probably a concussion. He glanced towards the sky. Only a few clouds were still hiding the sun. He would only need to hold out for a little longer. Just a little more.

The troll swung his hammer in a wild arch, hitting orcs and dwarrows alike. A goblin crashed into the ground next to Thorin. It's head was split wide open and there was a black sword in its hand.

This would have to do. Thorin stumbled forward and tried to make a dive for the weapon. It turned out to be a bad idea. Thorin did manage to get hold of the weapon but the troll was faster. A gigantic, grey hand that reached for him. The thick fingers enclosed him, lifted him high above the ground and squeezed. He screamed as his body was compress and his lungs fought for air.

"Let go of my brother!" Frerin's angry roar surprised him just as much as the axe that came hurling at the troll from out of nowhere. Frerin must have taken the weapon from one of their fallen comrades, as Thorin had tried with the goblin before. It hit the troll’s thick wrist but barely managed to break the skin.

It may not have injured the troll but it did make it loosen its hold on Thorin. With effort he hadn't thought he'd still have the strength for Thorin wedged the bent orcish blade into the troll’s palm. The thing screeched and Thorin was promptly dropped back onto muddy ground. Thorin was wheezing, his lungs fanatically sucking in air, his body curled in pain. His vision was blurry but he could still make out the shape of the troll angrily approaching a blurred figure with golden hair.

"G-Get away! Frerin! Run!" Thorin's voice cracked. Frerin did not seem to hear him. He was fiercely glaring at the troll that had dared to hurt his brother, barely able to stand himself but still determined to fight. A bloody sword and a dented shield in his hand.

At that moment the Valar finally granted them mercy. The rain stopped and the sun broke through the clouds, dispelling the dark shadow that had haunted the valley and gently touching the battlefield with sunlight. It was as if Arien herself had smiled upon them in their darkest hour.

It started slowly with the feet. With the trolls naturally gray skin it wasn't visible at first but when the troll tried to lift its foot its leg froze in a half bent position. It was turning to stone. The petrification crawled up the trolls body quickly. Within seconds the troll had completely turned to stone. Cheers from dwarven throats resounded across the battlefield.

"Nadad!" Frerin ran towards him. There was no time to make sure that the other was all right for the dark hordes were already approaching them again. The swinging hammer of the troll had made them keep their distance now that it was gone they were swarming towards them once more. Thorin could no longer fight with his right hand, could barely stand but he still had the bent dark iron blade in his left. He tried to ignore the pain his body was in. He still had to fight.

There was no sign of Dáin or Sórin. He pushed away the worry that welled up. They could take care of themselves. He and Frerin had their own problems to deal with.

A bout of orcish arrows was released onto the battlefield. Frerin glued himself to Thorin's side with his shield raised above both their heads. Thorin felt a small twinge of pain in his shoulder but it faded under all the other pains the rest of his body was in. A horn resounded from the orcish ranks. Frerin cursed but there was no second bout of arrows coming their way. Instead the few scattered orcs that had been attacking them began scrambling back towards the gate, retreating. Thorin blinked, slowly. In the distance he could he the triumph shouts of their fellow dwarven warriors.

"We won." Frerin whispered. His voice filled with awe. He whirled around to grin at Thorin. "We won!"

Thorin smiled weakly at his brother's enthusiasm. Thorin himself could muster no such thing. He felt his legs would stop holding him up any second. Swaying dangerously, he could already see the blackness creep along his vision.

"Thorin?"

Frerin's worried face appeared in front of him. He opened his mouth to assure him he was fine, but found that he could not make a sound.

"THORIN!"

His brother caught him as his legs buckled and stopped being able to carry him. His brother's eyes were fearful. Thorin wanted to reassure him that he would be fine, but he could not make his body cooperate. He was exhausted and in pain. Now that the adrenaline was leaving him it was impossible to keep his eyes open.

"Nadad!"

He felt Frerin shake him but he was still unable to respond. Darkness was spreading. Unconsciousness claimed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul Translations
> 
> Tahel - Laugh of all laughs  
> Naddith - little brother  
> Adad - father  
> Nadad - brother  
> Mâ sakhumâ ib-baknu hikulu. Mahganatsu e? - Let us watch/see tomorrow's sunrise. Promise (me)?  
> Mahagniti. - I promise.
> 
>  
> 
> Thrain's speech was inspired by two other historcal speeches. One being Manuel Quezon's third inaugural adress (1943), the other being Data Ubal's vow to kill a spanish conquistador (1596).
> 
>  
> 
> Characters age in human years: (Conversion rates to be found at the end of chapter 1)
> 
> Thorin (current physical age) (53) 12 1/2  
> Frerin (48) 11 3/4  
> Thrain (155) 37 1/2  
> Balin (36) 8 3/4  
> Fundin (137) 33 1/4  
> Dain (32) 7 3/4  
> Nain (134) 32 1/2

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul Translations
> 
> Abanjabel - Stonehead  
> Adad - Father  
> Ibrizinlêkh - sunshine  
> Nadad - brother  
> Naddith - little brother  
> Tahel - laugh of all laughs  
> Zaglel - Moon of all moons


End file.
